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Copyright!^ 



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BOOKS BY MR. STEDMAN 

PROSE AND POETIC WORKS. Including Poems, 
Victorian Poets, Poets of America, Nature and Elements 
of Poetry. 4 vols, uniform, crown 8vo, gilt top, in box, 
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tions illustrating the Editor's Critical Review of British 
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POEMS NOW FIRST COLLECTED. i2mo, gilt top, 
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AN AMERICAN ANTHOLOGY. Selections illustrat- 
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Large 8 vo. {In Preparation.) 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
BOSTON AND NEW YORK 



POETICAL WORKS 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 



J^ou^^oiU €Ution 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



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BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

SEP. 7 1901 

Copyright entry 

CLASS «»^XXc. Hi*. 

COPY B. 



75 aii» 



Copyright, i860, 1863, 1869, 1873, 1877, 1884, 1888, 1891, 1897, and 1901, 

By CHARLES SCRIBNER, GEORGE W. CARLETON, FIELDS, 

OSGOOD & CO., JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 

AND EDMUND C. STEDMAN. 



All rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge , Mass.,- U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 









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This Collection 

IS AFFECTIONATELY AND REVERENTLY 

Petocateb 
TO MY MOTHER. 



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CONTENTS. 



EARLY POEMS. (Published i860.) Page 

Bohemia : A Pilgrimage 3 

The Diamond Wedding 10 

Penelope • . . 17 

The Singer 21 

Heliotrope 21 

Rosemary 23 

Summer Rain 25 

Too Late 28 

Voice of the Western Wind 29 

Flood-Tide 30 

Apollo 40 

The Ordeal by Fire 40 

The Protest of Faith 44 

The Freshet 48 

_ The Sleigh-Ride . 56 

The Ballad of Lager Bier 58 

How Old Brown took Harper's Ferry . . 64 

SONNETS. 

Hope deferred 71 

A Mother's Picture 72 



x CONTENTS. 

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 

Elfin Song 75 

Amavi 79 

Ode to Pastoral Romance 80 

ALICE OF MONMOUTH and other Poems/ (Published 1864.) 
Alice of Monmouth 91 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Alectryon •.... 145 

The Test 152 

The Old Love and the New 154 

Estelle 158 

Edged Tools 160 

The Swallow 162 

Refuge in Nature 163 

Montagu 165 

Wild Winds whistle 168 

Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call .... 170 

TRANSLATION. 

Jean Prouvaire's Song at the Barricade . . .179 

THE BLAMELESS PRINCE and other Poems. (Published 1869.) 
The Blameless Prince 187 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
I. 'Songs and Studies. 

Surf , i . . 237 

Toujours Amour . ....... 238 

Laura, my Darling • 239 

The Tryst 240 

Violet Eyes . ..»•... 241 

v, — The Doorstep 242 

. Fuit Ilium 244 

Country Sleighing 247 



CONTENTS. xl 

V Pan in Wall Street ....... 250 

Anonyma 253 

Spoken at Sea 255 

The Duke's Exequy 257 

The Hillside Door ........ 259 

At Twilight ... . • • . . . 261 

II. Poems of Nature. 

Woods and Waters ........ 263 

To Bayard Taylor ....... 265 

The Mountain . . • 266 

Holyoke Valley 270 

The Feast of Harvest ....... 272 

Autumn Song • . 275 

What the Winds bring 275 

Betrothed Anew 276 

III. Shadow-land. 

"The Undiscovered Country" 278 

"Darkness and the Shadow" 279 

The Assault by Night 279 

George Arnold 281 

The Sad Bridal. • ....... 283 

OCCASIONAL POEMS. » :. 

Sumter 287 

Wanted — A Man 289 

Treason's Last Device 291 

Abraham Lincoln ........ 293 

Israel Freyer's Bid for Gold . . . . .293 

Cuba 297 

Crete 299 

The Old Admiral 300 

Gettysburg 303 

Dartmouth Ode 310 

Horace Greeley 321 



Xii CONTENTS. 

Kearny at Seven Pines 324 

Custer 325 

The Comedian's Last Night 327 

The Monument of Greeley 329 

News from Olympia 334 

Le Jour du Rossignol 336 

Meridian . 338 

TRANSLATIONS. 

I. The Death of Agamemnon (from Homer) . . -351 

II. The Death of Agamemnon (from Aischylos) . . 355 

LATER POEMS. 

The Songster . 365 

Crabbed Age and Youth . 369 

Stanzas for Music . . „ 371 

The Flight of the Birds 372 

Hypatia 373 

*»■ The Heart of New England 376 

The Discoverer 380 

Sister Beatrice 3S2 

Seeking the Mayflower 389 

Hawthorne 391 

All in a Lifetime 398 

The Skull in the Gold Drift 400 

Song from a Drama 403 

The Sun-Dial 404 

Madrigal 405 

With a Sprig of Heather 406 

The Lord's-Day Gale 407 

L'ENVOI. 

Ad Vatem .415 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Portrait of E. C. Stedman Frontispiece 

" And the gentle summer rain 

Cooled the fevered earth again " 26 

" Hark ! the jingle 

Of the sleigh-bells' song " 56 

" Often the yacht with all sail spread " 98 

" When April rains " . .121 

" Once more on the fallow hillside " 154 

" The open sea bore commerce to her marts " 189 

" Blue rollers breaking in surf where we stand " . . . . 237 

" Two thousand feet in air it stands " 266 

" The sunlight fills the trembling air " 276 

" Every broadside swept to death a score " 301 

" The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky 

Thou still canst find the color of thy wing " 373 



EARLY POEMS 




EARLY POEMS. 



BOHEMIA. 

A PILGRIMAGE. 
I. 

J J THEN buttercups are blossoming, 
The poets sang, His best to wed : 
So all for love we paired in Spring — 
Blanche and I — ere youth had sped, 
For Autumn's wealth brings Autumn's wane 
Sworn fealty to royal Art 
Was ours, and doubly linked the chain, 
With symbols of her high domain, 
That twined us ever heart to heart : 

And onward, like the Babes in the Wood, 
We rambled, till before us stood 
The outposts of Bohemia. 



For, roaming blithely many a day, 
Eftsoons our little hoard of gold, 
Like Christian's follies, slipt away, 
Unloosened from the pilgrim's hold, 
But left us just as blithe and free ; 



EARLY POEMS. 

Whereat our footsteps turned aside 

From lord and lady of degree, 

And bore us to that brave countree 

Where merrily we now abide, — 
That proud and humble, poor and grand, 
Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land, 
The Valley of Bohemia. 



Together from the higher clime, 
By terraced cliff and copse along, 
Adown the slant we stept, in time 
To many another pilgrim's song, 
And came where faded far away, 
Each side, the kingdom's ancient wall, 
From breaking unto dying day ; 
Beyond, the magic valley lay, 
With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall 
And here, between twin turrets, ran, 
Built o'er with arch and barbacan, 
The entrance to Bohemia. 



Beneath the lichened parapet 
Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore 
The Royal Arms, — Hope's Anchor, set 
In azure, on a field of or, 
With pendent mugs, and hands that wield 
A lute and tambour, graven clear ; 
What seemed a poet's scroll revealed 
The antique legend of the shield : 
Cambrinus. 3ftex. her&e.SJ&assatlle.here. 

iognetf. forth, ge. Ittnge. of. gbetot. 

©. foorloesbjorne. pilgrim, passe, belofoe. 
&o. entre. fagre, Bohemia. 



BOHEMIA. 



No churlish warder barred the gate, 
Nor other pass was needed there 
Than equal heart for either fate, 
And barren scrip, and hope to spare. 
Through the gray archway, hand in hand, 
We walked, beneath the rampart high, 
*And on within the wondrous land ; 
There, changed as by enchanter's wand, 
My sweetheart, fairer to the eye 
Than ever, moved along serene 
In hood and cloak, — a gypsy queen, 
Born princess of Bohemia ! 



A fairy realm ! where slope and stream, 
Champaign and upland, town and grange, 
Like shadowy shiftings of a dream, 
Forever blend and interchange ; 
A magic clime ! where, hour by hour, 
Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by, 
Commingle, and, through shine and shower, 
Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower, 
Emblazoning the distant sky 

With glimmering glories of a land 

Far off, yet ever close at hand 
As hope, in brave Bohemia. 

VII. 

On either side the travelled way, 
Encamped along the sunny downs, 
The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay ; 
Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns, 
At smoke-stained inns of musty date, 



EARLY POEMS. 

And spider-haunted attic nooks 
In empty houses of the great, 
Still smacking of their ancient state, — 
Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books, 
And robes and buskins over-worn, 
That well become the careless scorn 
And freedom of Bohemia. 

VIII. 

For, loving Beauty, and, by chance, 
Too poor to make her all in all, 
They spurn her half-way maintenance, 
And let things mingle as they fall ; 
Dissevered from all other climes, 
Yet compassing the whole round world, 
Where'er are jests, and jousts at rhymes, 
True love, and careless, jovial times, 
Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled, 
Men that were born before their day, 
Kingly, without a realm to sway, 
Yet monarchs in Bohemia ; 

IX. 

And errant wielders of the quill ; 

And old-world princes, strayed afar, 

In thread-bare exile chasing still 

The glimpses of a natal star ; 

And Woman — taking refuge there 

With woman's toil, and trust, and song, 

And something of a piquant air 

Defiant, as who must and dare 

Steer her own shallop, right or wrong. 
A certain noble nature schools, 
In scorn of smaller, mincing rules, 
The maidens of Bohemia. 



BOHEMIA. 



But we pursued our pilgrimage 
Far on, through hazy lengths of road, 
Or crumbling cities gray with age ; 
And stayed in many a queer abode, 
Days, seasons, years, — wherein were born 
Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three ; 
And ever, though with travel worn, 
Nor garnered for the morrow's morn, 
We seemed a merry company, — 

We, and the mates whom friendship, or 
What sunshine fell within our door, 
Drew to us in Bohemia. 



For Ambrose — priest without a cure — 
Christened our babes, and drank the wine 
He blessed, to make the blessing sure ; 
And Ralph, the limner — half-divine 
The picture of my Blanche he drew, 
As Saint Cecilia 'mong the caves, — 
She singing ; eyes a holy blue, 
Upturned and rapturous ; hair, in hue, 
Gold rippled into amber waves. 

There, too, is wayward, wild Annette, 
Danseuse and warbler and grisette, 
True daughter of Bohemia, 



But all by turns and nothing long ; 
And Rose, whose needle gains her bread ; 
And bookish Sibyl, — she whose tongue 
The bees of Hybla must have fed ; 
And one — a poet — nowise sage 



EARLY POEMS. 

For self, but gay companion boon 
And prophet of the golden age ; 
He joined us in our pilgrimage 
Long since, one early Autumn noon 

When, faint with journeying, we sate 

Within a wayside hostel-gate 
To rest us in Bohemia. 

XIII. 

In rusty garb, but with an air 
Of grace, that hunger could not whelm, 
He told his wants, and — " Could we spare 
Aught of the current of the realm — 
A shilling?" — which I gave ; and so 
Came talk, and Blanche's kindly smile ; 
Whereat he felt his heart aglow, 
And said : " Lo, here is silver ! lo, 
Mine host hath ale ! and it were vile, 
If so much coin were spent by me 
For bread, when such good company 
Is gathered in Bohemia." 



Richer than Kaiser on his throne, 

A royal stoup he bade them bring ; 

And so, with many of mine own, 

His shilling vanished on the wing ; 

And many a skyward-floating strain 

He sang, we chorusing the lay 

Till all the hostel rang again ; 

But when the day began to wane, 

Along the sequel of our way 

He kept us pace ; and, since that time, 
We never lack for song and rhyme 
To cheer us, in Bohemia. 



BOHEMIA. 



And once we stopped a twelvemonth, where 
Five-score Bohemians began 
Their scheme to cheapen bed and fare, 
Upon a late-discovered plan ; 
" For see," they said, " the sum how small 
By which one pilgrim's wants are met ! 
And if a host together fall, 
What need of any cash at all ? " 
Though how it worked I half forget, 
Yet still the same old dance and song 
We found, — the kindly, blithesome throng 
And joyance of Bohemia. 

XVI. 

Thus onward through the Magic Land, 
With varying chance. But once there past 
A mystic shadow o'er our band, 
Deeper than Want could ever cast, 
For, oh, it darkened little eyes ! 
We saw our youngest darling die, 
Then robed her in her palmer's guise, 
And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise, 
And, one by one. so tenderly, 

Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose, 
Strewing each sweetest flower that grows 
In wildwoods of Bohemia. 



But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood 

Above the tiny clay, and said : 

" Bright little Spirit, pure and good, 

Whither so far away hast fled ? 

Full soon thou tryest that other sphere 



IO EARLY POEMS. 

Whate'er is lacking in our lives 
Thou dost attain ; for Heaven is near, 
Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here, 
As to that one who never strives 

With fortune, — has not come to know 
The pride and pain that dwell so low 
In valleys of Bohemia." 

XVIII. 

He ceased, and pointed solemnly- 
Through western windows ; and we saw 
That lustrous castle of the sky 
Gleam, touched with flame ; and heard with awe, 
About us, gentle whisperings 
Of unseen watchers hovering near 
Our dead, and rustling angel wings ! 
Now, whether this or that year brings 
The valley's end, or, haply, here 

Our pilgrimage for life must last, 

We know not ; but a sacred past 
Has hallowed all Bohemia. 



THE DIAMOND WEDDING. 

OLOVE ! Love ! Love ! what times were those, 
Long ere the age of belles and beaux 
And Brussels lace and silken hose, 
When, in the green Arcadian close, 
You married Psyche, under the rose, 

With only the grass for bedding ! 
Heart to heart, and hand in hand, 
You followed Nature's sweet command — 



THE DIAMOND WEDDING. 

Roaming lovingly through the land, 
Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding. 

So have we read, in classic Ovid, 
How Hero watched for her beloved, 

Impassioned youth, Leander. 
She was the fairest of the fair, 
And wrapt him round with her golden hair, 
Whenever he landed cold and bare, 
With nothing to eat and nothing to wear 

And wetter than any gander ; 
For Love was Love, and better than money : 
The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey ; 
And kissing was clover, all the world over, 

Wherever Cupid might wander. 

So thousands of years have come and gone, 
And still the moon is shining on, 

Still Hymen's torch is lighted ; 
And hitherto, in this land of the West, 
Most couples in love have thought it best 
To follow the ancient way of the rest, 

And quietly get united. 

But now, True Love, you 're growing old — 
Bought and sold, with silver and gold, 
Like a house, or a horse and carriage ! 

Midnight talks, 

Moonlight walks, 
The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh, 
The shadowy haunts with no one by, 
I do not wish to disparage ; 

But every kiss 

Has a price for its bliss, 
In the modern code of marriage ; 



2 EARLY POEMS. 

And the compact sweet 
Is not complete, 
Till the high contracting parties meet 

Before the altar of Mammon ; 
And the bride must be led to a silver bower, 
Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower 
That would frighten Jupiter Ammon ! 

I need not tell 
How it befell, 

(Since Jenkins has told the story- 
Over and over and over again, 
In a style I cannot hope to attain, 

And covered himself with glory ! ) 
How it befell, one Summer's day, 
The King of the Cubans strolled this way, — 
King January 's his name, they say, — 
And fell in love with the Princess May, 

The reigning belle of Manhattan ; 
Nor how he began to smirk and sue, 
And dress as lovers who come to woo, 
Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do, 
When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies' view, 

And flourish the wondrous baton. 



He was n't one of your Polish nobles, 

Whose presence their country somehow troubles, 

And so our cities receive them ; 
Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees, 
Who ply our daughters with lies and candies, 

Until the poor girls believe them. 
No, he was no such charlatan — 
Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan, 



THE DIAMOND WEDDING. 



13 



Full of gasconade and bravado, 

But a regular, rich Don Rataplan 

Santa Claus de la Muscovado 

Sefior Grandissimo Bastinado ! 

His was the rental of half Havana 

And all Matanzas ; and Santa Anna, 

Rich as he was, could hardly hold 

A candle to light the mines of gold 

Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers ; 

And broad plantations, that, in round figures, 

Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers! 

" Gather ye rosebuds while ye may ! " 

The Sefior swore to carry the day, 

To capture the beautiful Princess May, 

With his battery of treasure ; 
Velvet and lace she should not lack ; 
Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black, 
Genin and Stewart, his suit should back 

And come and go at her pleasure ; 
Jet and lava — silver and gold — 
Garnets — emeralds rare to behold — 
Diamonds — sapphires — wealth untold ' 
All were hers, to have and to hold ; 

Enough to fill a peck-measure ! 

He did n't bring all his forces on 
At once, but like a crafty old Don, 
Who many a heart had fought and won, 

Kept bidding a little higher ; 
And every time he made his bid, 
And what she said, and all they did — 

'T was written down, 

For the good of the town, 
By Jeems, of The Daily Flyer. 



14 



EARLY POEMS. 

A coach and horses, you 'd think, would buy 
For the Don an easy victory ; 

But slowly our Princess yielded. 
A diamond necklace caught her eye, 
But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh. 
She knew the worth of each maiden glance, 
And, like young colts, that curvet and prance, 
She led the Don a deuce of a dance, 

In spite of the wealth he wielded. 

She stood such a fire of silks and laces, 
Jewels, and golden dressing-cases, 
And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls, 
That every one of her dainty curls 
Brought the price of a hundred common girls ; 

Folks thought the lass demented ! 
But at last a wonderful diamond ring, 
An infant Koh-i-noor, did the thing, 
And, sighing with love, or something the same, 
(What 's in a name ?) 

The Princess May consented. 

Ring ! ring the bells, and bring 

The people to see the marrying ! 

Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor 

Throng round the great Cathedral door, 

To wonder what all the hubbub 's for, 

And sometimes stupidly wonder 
At so much sunshine and brightness, which 
Fall from the church upon the rich, 

While the poor get all the thunder. 



THE DIAMOND WEDDING. j$ 

Ring ! ring, merry bells, ring ! 

O fortunate few 

With letters blue, 
Good for a seat and a nearer view ! 
Fortunate few, whom I dare not name ; 
Dilettanti / Creme de la crime / 
We commoners stood by the street facade 
And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade ; 

We saw the bride 

In diamonded pride, 
With jewelled maidens to guard her side, — 

Six lustrous maidens in tarletan. 
She led the van of the caravan ; 

Close behind her, her mother 
(Dressed in gorgeous moire afitique, 
That told, as plainly as words could speak, 
She was more antique than the other,) 

Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan 
Santa Claus de la Muscovado 
Sefior Grandissimo Bastinado. 

Happy mortal ! fortunate man ! 
And Marquis of El Dorado ! 

In they swept, all riches and grace, 
Silks and satins, jewels and lace ; 
In they swept from the dazzled sun, 
And soon in the church the deed was done. 
Three prelates stood on the chancel high : 
A knot that gold and silver can buy 
Gold and silver may yet untie, 

Unless it is tightly fastened ; 
What 's worth doing at all 's worth doing well.. 
And the sale of a young Manhattan belle 

Is not to be pushed or hastened j 



!g EARLY POEMS. 

So two Very- Reverends graced the scene, 
And the tall Archbishop stood between, 

By prayer and fasting chastened. 
The Pope himself would have come from Rome, 
But Garibaldi kept him at home. 
Haply these robed prelates thought 
Their words were the power that tied the knot ; 
But another power that love-knot tied, 
And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride, - 
A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain, 
Coiled with diamonds again and again, 

As befits a diamond wedding ; 
Yet still 't was a chain, and I thought she knew it, 
And half-way longed for the will to undo it, 

By the secret tears she was shedding. 

But is n't it odd, to think whenever 

We all go through that terrible River, — 

Whose sluggish tide alone can sever 

(The Archbishop says) the Church decree, 

By floating one into Eternity 

And leaving the other alive as ever, — 

As each wades through that ghastly stream, 

The satins that rustle and gems that gleam 

Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away 

To the noisome River's bottom-clay ; 

Then the costly bride and her maidens six 

Will shiver upon the banks of the Styx, 

Quite as helpless as they were born, — 

Naked souls, and very forlorn ; 

The Princess, then, must shift for herself, 

And lay her royalty on the shelf ; 

She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder, 

Whose robes are now the wide world's wonder, 



PENELOPE. l y 

And even ourselves, and our dear little wives, 

Who calico wear each morn of their lives, 

And the sewing girls, and les chiffoniers, 

In rags and hunger, — a gaunt array, — 

And all the grooms of the caravan — 

Ay, even the great Don Rataplan 

Santa Claus de la Muscovado 

Senor Grandissimo Bastinado — 

That gold-encrusted, fortunate man ! — 

All will land in naked equality : 

The lord of a ribboned principality 

Will mourn the loss of his cordon. 
Nothing to eat, and nothing to wear 
Will certainly be the fashion there ! 
Ten to one, and I '11 go it alone, 
Those most used to a rag and bone, 
Though here on earth they labor and groan, 
Will stand it best, as they wade abreast 

To the other side of Jordan. 



PENELOPE. 

IV ] OT thus, Ulysses, with a tender word, 

■*- ^ Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment, 

And halt assurances, canst thou evade 

My heart's discernment. Think not such a film 

Hath touched these aged eyes, to make them lose 

The subtlest mood of those even now adroop, 

Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze. 

Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles ! 



IS EARLY POEMS. 

man of restless yearnings — fate-impelled, 
Fate-conquering — like a waif thrown back and forth 
O'er many waters ! Oft I see thee stand 

At eve, a landmark on the outer cliff, 
Looking far westward ; later, when the feast 
Smokes in the hall, and nimble servants pass 
Great bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus sings 
The deeds of Peleus' son, thy right hand moves 
Straight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home ; 
Then, when thou hearest him follow in the song 
Thine own miraculous sojourn of long years 
Through stormy seas, weird islands, and the land 
Of giants, and the gray companions smite 
Their shields, and cry, What do we longer here t 
Afloat ! and let the great waves bear us on ! 

1 know thou growest weary of the realm, 
Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame. 

I too have had my longings. Am I not 
Penelope, who, when Ulysses came 
To Sparta, and Icarius bade her choose 
Betwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her face 
And stept upon the galley silver-oared, 
And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls ? 
Then when the hateful Helen fled to Troy 
With Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailed 
Then ships to Aulis, I would have thee go — 
Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war. 
So ten years passed ; meanwhile I reared thy son 
To know his father's wisdom, and, apart 
Among my maidens, wove the yellow wool. 
But then, returning one by one, they came, — 
The island-princes ; high-born dames of Crete 
And Cephalonia saw again their lords ; 



PENELOPE. \c 

Only Ulyssess came not ; yet the war 

Was over, and his vessels, like a troop 

Of cranes in file, had spread their wings for home. 

More was unknown. Then many a winter's night 

The servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar, 

High on the palace-roof ; with mine own hands 

I fired the heaps, that, haply, far away 

On the dark waters, might my lord take heart 

And know the glory of his kingly towers. 

So winter passed ; and summer came and went, 
And winter and another summer ; then — 
Alas, how many weary months and days ! 
But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowest 
Pelasgia's noblest chiefs, with kingly gifts 
And pledge of dower, gathered in the halls ; 
But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yet 
Thou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores. 
And great Athene often in my dreams 
Shone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all, 
The people rose, swearing a king should rule, 
To keep their ancient empery of the isles 
Inviolate and thrifty : bade me choose 
A mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayed 
Respite, until the web within my loom, 
Of gold and purple curiously devised 
For old Laertes' shroud, should fall complete 
From hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowest 
How like a ghost I left my couch at night, 
Unravelling the labor of the day, 
And warded off the fate, till came that time 
When my lost sea-king thundered in his halls. 
And with long arrows clove the suitors' hearts. 
So constant was I ! now not thirty moons 



2o EARLY POEMS. 

Go by, and thou forgettest all. Alas ! 
What profit is there any more in love ? 
What thankless sequel hath a woman's faith ! 

Yet if thou wilt, — in these thy golden years, 
Safe-housed in royalty, like a god revered 
By all the people, — if thou yearnest yet 
Once more to dare the deep and Neptune's hate, 
I will not linger in a widowed age ; 
I will not lose Ulysses, hardly found 
After long vigils ; but will cleave about 
Thy neck, with more than woman's prayers and tears, 
Until thou take me with thee. As I left 
My sire, I leave my son, to follow, where 
Ulysses goeth, dearer for the strength 
Of that great heart which ever drives him on 
To large experience of newer toils ! 

Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove, 
But, like Athene's helm, a guiding star, 
A glory and a comfort ! O, be sure 
My heart shall take its lesson from thine own ! 
My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oars 
In the night watches ; it shall warble songs, 
Whose music shall o'erpower the luring airs 
Of Nereid or Siren. If we find 
Those isles thou namest, where the golden fount 
Gives youth to all who taste it, we will drink 
Deep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow, 
And I shall walk in beauty, as when first 
I saw thee from afar in Sparta's groves. 
But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swift 
Black currents bear us down the noisome wave 
That leads to Hades, till the vessel sink 



HELIOTROPE. 

In Stygian waters, none the less our souls 
Shall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand, 
Walk from the strand across Elysian fields, 
'Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say 
ft There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods, 
And she, his wife, most faithful unto death ! " 



THE SINGER. 

OLARK ! sweet lark ! 
Where learn you all your minstrelsy ? 
What realms are those to which you fly ? 
While robins feed their young from dawn till dark, 
You soar on high, — 
Forever in the sky. 

O child ! dear child ! 
Above the clouds I lift my wing 
To hear the bells of Heaven ring ; 
Some of their music, though my flights be wild, 

To Earth I bring ; 

Then let me soar and sing ! 



HELIOTROPE. 

WALK in the morning twilight, 
Along a garden-slope, 
To the shield of moss encircling 
My beautiful Heliotrope. 



21 



22 EARLY POEMS. 

sweetest of all the flowerets 
That bloom where angels tread ! 

But never such marvellous odor 
From heliotrope was shed, 

As the passionate exhalation, 
The dew of celestial wine, 

That floats in tremulous languor 
Around this darling of mine. 

For, only yester-even, 
I saw the dearest scene ! 

1 heard the delicate footfall, 

The step of my love, my queen. 

Along the walk she glided : 
I made no sound nor sign, 

But ever, at the turning 

Of her star-white neck divine, . 

I shrunk in the shade of the cypress, 
And crouched in the swooning grass. 

Like some Arcadian shepherd 
To see an Oread pass. 

But when she came to the border 
At the end of the garden-slope, 

She bent, like a rose-tree, over 
That beautiful Heliotrope. 

The cloud of its subtile fragrance 
Entwined her in its wreath, 

And all the while commingled 
With the incense of her breath. 



ROSEMARY. 

And so she glistened onward, 
Far down the long parterre, 

Beside the statue of Hesper, 
And a hundred times more fair. 

But ah ! her breath had added 

The perfume that I find 
In this, the sweetest of flowerets, 

And the paragon of its kind. 

I drink deep draughts of its nectar : 
I faint with love and hope ! 

Oh, what did she whisper to you, 
My beautiful Heliotrope ? 



ROSEMARY. 

' There 's Rosemary, that 's for Remembrance.' 

"\7"EARS ago, when a summer sun 
-*- Warmed the greenwood into life, 
I went wandering with one 
Soon to be my wife. 

Birds were mating, and Love began 

All the copses to infold ; 
Our two souls together ran 

Melting in one mould. 

Skies were bluer than ever before : 
It was joy to love you then, 

And to know I loved you more 
Than could other men ! 



23 



24 



EARLY POEMS. 

Winds were fresh and your heart was brave, 

Sang to mine a sweet refrain, 
And for every pledge I gave 

Pledged me back again. 

How it happened I cannot tell, 

But there came a cursed hour, 
When some hidden shape of hell 

Crept within our bower. 

Sudden and sharply either spoke 
Bitter words of doubt and scorn ; 

Pride the golden linklets broke, — 
Left us both forlorn. 

Seven long years have gone since then, 

And I suffered, but, at last, 
Rose and joined my fellow-men, 

Crushing down the past. 

Far away over distant hills, 

Now I know your life is led ; 
Have you felt the rust that kills ? 

Are your lilies dead ? 

Summer and winter you have dwelt, 

Like a statue, cold and white ; 
None, of all the crowd who knelt, 

Read your soul aright. 

O, I knew the tremulous swell 

Of its secret undertone ! 
That diviner music fell 

On my ear alone ! 



SUMMER RAIN. 

Ever in dreams we meet with tears : 
Lake and mountain — all are past : 

With the stifled love of seven long years 
Hold each other fast ! 

Though the glamoury of the night 
Fades with morning far away, 

Oftentimes a strange delight 
Haunts the after-day. 

Even now, when the summer sun 
Warms the greenwood far within, 

Even now my fancies run 
On what might have been. 



SUMMER RAIN. 

YESTERMORN the air was dry 
As the winds of Araby, 
While the sun, with pitiless heat, 
Glared upon the glaring street, 
And the meadow fountains sealed, 
Till the people everywhere, 
And the cattle in the field, 

And the birds in middle air, 
And the thirsty little flowers, 

Sent to heaven a fainting prayer 
For the blessed summer showers. 

Not in vain the prayer was said ; 
For at sunset, overhead, 
Sailing from the gorgeous West, 
Came the pioneers, abreast, 
2 



25 



26 EARLY POEMS. 

Of a wondrous argosy, — 
The Armada of the sky ! 
Far along I saw them sail, 
Wafted by an upper gale ; 
Saw them, on their lustrous route, 
Fling a thousand banners out : 
Yellow, violet, crimson, blue, 
Orange, sapphire, — every hue 
That the gates of Heaven put on, 
To the sainted eyes of John, 
In that hallowed Patmos isle 
Their skyey pennons wore ; and while 
I drank the glory of the sight 
Sunset faded into night. 

Then diverging, far and wide, 
To the dim horizon's side, 
Silently and swiftly there, 
Every galleon of the air, 
Manned by some celestial crew, 
Out its precious cargo threw, 
And the gentle summer rain 
Cooled the fevered Earth again. 

Through the night I heard it fall 
Tenderly and musical ; 
And this morning not a sigh 

Of wind uplifts the briony leaves, 
But the ashen-tinted sky 

Still for earthly turmoil grieves, 
While the melody of the rain, 
Dropping on the window-pane, 
On the lilac and the rose, 
Round us all its pleasance throws, 



SUMMER RAIN. 

Till our souls are yielded wholly 
To its constant melancholy, 
And, like the burden of its song, 
Passionate moments glide along. 

Pinks and hyacinths perfume 
All our garden-fronted room ; 
Hither, close beside me, Love ! 
Do not whisper, do not move. 
Here we two will softly stay, 
Side by side, the livelong day. 
Lean thy head upon my breast : 
Ever shall it give thee rest, 
Ever would I gaze to meet 
Eyes of thine up-glancing, Sweet ! 
What enchanted dreams are ours ! 
While the murmur of the showers 
Dropping on the tranquil ground, 
Dropping on the leaves and flowers, 
Wraps our yearning souls around 
In the drapery of its sound. 

Still the plenteous streamlets fall : 
Here two hearts are all in all 
To each other ; and they beat 
With no evanescent heat, 
But softly, steadily, hour by hour, 
With the calm, melodious power 
Of the gentle summer rain, 
That in Heaven so long hath lain, 
And from out that shoreless sea 
Pours its blessings tenderly. 

Freer yet its currents swell ! 
Here are streams that flow as well, 



27 



28 EARL Y POEMS. 

Rivulets of the constant heart ; 

But a little space apart 

Glide they now, and soon shall run, 

Love-united, into one. 

It shall chance, in future days, 

That again the lurid rays 

Of that hidden sun shall shine 

On the floweret and the vine, 

And again the meadow-springs 

Fly away on misty wings : 

But no glare of Fate adverse 

Shall on us achieve its curse, 

Never any baneful gleam 

Waste our clear, perennial stream ; 

For its fountains lie below 

That malign and ominous glow, — 

Lie in shadowy grottoes cool, 

Where all kindly spirits rule ; 

Calmly ever shall it flow 

Toward the waters of the sea, — 

That serene Eternity ! 



TOO LATE. 

CROUCH no more by the ivied walls, 
Weep no longer over her grave, 
Strew no flowers when evening falls : 
Idly you lost what angels gave ! 

Sunbeams cover that silent mound 
With a warmer hue than your roses' red ; 
To-morrow's rain will bedew the ground 
With a purer stream than the tears you shed. 



VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND. 29 

But neither the sweets of the scattered flowers, 
Nor the morning sunlight's soft command, 
Nor all the songs of the summer showers, 
Can charm her back from that distant land. 

Tenderest vows are ever too late ! 
She, who has gone, can only know 
The cruel sorrow that was her fate, 
And the words that were a mortal woe. 

Earth to earth, and a vain despair ; 
For the gentle spirit has flown away, 
And you can never her wrongs repair, 
Till ye meet again at the Judgment Day. 



VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND. 

VOICE of the western wind ! 
Thou singest from afar, 
Rich with the music of a land 

Where all my memories are ; 
But in thy song I only hear 

The echo of a tone 
That fell divinely on my ear 
In days forever flown. 

Star of the western sky ! 

Thou beamest from afar, 
With lustre caught from eyes I knew, 

Whose orbs were each a star ; 
But, oh, those orbs — too wildly bright — 

No more eclipse thine own, 
And never shall I find the light 

Of days forever flown ! 



3Q 



EARLY POEMS. 



FLOOD-TIDE. 



JUST at sunrise, when the land-breeze cooled the 
fevered air once more, 
From a restless couch I wandered to the sounding 

ocean shore ; 
Strolling down through furrowed sand-hills, while the 

splendor of the day 
Flashed across the trembling waters to the West and 

far away. 
There I saw, in distant moorings, many an anchored 

vessel tall ; 
Heard with cheery morning voices sailor unto sailor 

call. 
Crowned with trailing plumes of sable, right afront my 

standing-place 
Moved a swarthy ocean-steamer in her storm-resisting 

grace. 
Prophet-like, she clove the waters toward the ancient 

mother-land, 
And I heard her clamorous engine and the echo of 

command, 
While the long Atlantic billows to my feet came rolling 

on, 
With the multitudinous music of a thousand ages gone. 

There I stood, with careless ankles half in sand and 

half in spray, 
Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed 

away; 
Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle 

wide, 



FLOOD-TIDE. 3! 

Felt my spirit rise exultant with the rising of the tide ; 
Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through 

every vein, 
Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms 

again. 
Then came utterance self-condemning, — oh, how wild 

with sudden scorn 
Of the chain that held me circling in a little round for- 
lorn ! 
Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate 

heart, 
That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its 

part, — 
In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the 

clown, 
While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch 

wears his crown ! 

" Shame " I said, u upon the craven who can rest, con- 
tent to save 

Paltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel 
gave ! 

Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the 
strife, 

Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of 
life ! 

Shame upon God's toiling thinkers, who make profit of 
their brains, 

Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decay- 
ing pains ! 

Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur 
of a soul 

Born to lead the van of armies or a people to control. 

Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and 
mire, 



32 EARLY POEMS. 

On the mounting waves of effort, buoyed by the soul's 
desire ! 

Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder 
of our time : 

Such a life were worth the living ! thus to sail through 
every clime, 

From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures 
manifold ; 

Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of 
gold; 

Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent North- 
ern Pole, 

And those solemn open waters that beyond the ice- 
plains roll, — 

Cold and shining sea of ages ! like a silver fillet set 

On the Earth's eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet. 

Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and 
the right, 

Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling 
cloud of fight. 

When the din of cannonading and the jarring war 
should cease, 

From the lion's mouth of battle there should flow the 
sweets of peace. 

I should count repose in cities from my seventy years 
a loss, — 

Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged alba- 
tross. 

I should lay the wire-wrought cable — a ghostly depth 
below — 

Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau ; 

To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should 
roam, 

Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Chris- 
tendom. 



FLOOD-TIDE. 33 

Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant's port should 

save 
Captives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and 

the grave ; 
And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the 

orient sea, 
Like the glad apostles' anthem, when an angel set them 

free. 

Such the nobler life heroic ! life which ancient Homer 

sung 
Of the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome 

Earth was young, 
And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty 

land 
Where the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of 

Scylla stand. 
How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses 

held the helm, 
And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a 

wondrous realm ! 
Neither Circe, nor the languor of enchanted nights 

and days 
Soothed their eager-eyed disquiet, — tamed theirventu- 

rous, epic ways ; 
And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the 

shore, 
Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for 

evermore. 

So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon 

blood, 
Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his 

food ; 

2* c 



34 



EARLY POEMS. 



Fought till death for queen and country, hating Anti- 
christ and Spain ; 

Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western 
main; 

Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray 
cathedral pile, 

And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin Eng- 
lish isle. 

Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes 
go: 

Ho / a Raleigh ! Ho / a Drake / — and, forever, 
Westward Ho ! 

Why should not my later paean catch the swell of that 
refrain, 

And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the 
age again ? 

But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the 
golden year, 

Broader continents of action open up in every sphere. 

And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persua- 
sive art, 

Strike the chords of aspiration in a people's lyric 
heart. 

If in mine — of all republics the Atlantis and supreme — 

There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying 
theme — 

Yet I falter while I say it : — ours of every crime the 
worst ! 

For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and call- 
ing first : 

But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South, 

Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the 
warning mouth, — 



FLOOD-TIDE. 35 

In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest, 
Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of 

the West ; 
Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient free- 
dom, wait 
Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken 

state. 
Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my 

face, 
Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar- 
place, 
Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as 

divine 
As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of 

forest-pine. 
I myself would seize their banner ; they should follow 

where it led, 
To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead. 
It were better than to conquer — from the light of life 

to go 
With such words as once were uttered, off the isle of 

Floreo : 
Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful 

mood : 
Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier 

should ! 
But my present life — what is it? mated, housed, like 

other men ; 
Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the 

pen; 
Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of 

creeds ; 
Peering out through grated windows at the joy my 

spirit needs. 



36 EARLY POEMS. 

And I hear the sound of chanting, — mailed men are 

passing by ; 
Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters ! I will join them, 

ere I die ! " 



So the sleeping thoughts of boyhood oped their eyes 

and newly stirred, 
And my muscles cried for usage, till the man their 

plainings heard : 
While the star that lit me ever in the dark and thorny 

ways, 
Mine by natal consecration, by the choice of after 

days, — 
Seen through all the sorrow thickening round the hopes 

of younger years, — 
Rayless grew, and left me groping in the valley of my 

tears. 

Seaward now the steamer hovered; seaward far her 
pennons trailed, 

Where the blueness of the heavens at the clear horizon 
paled ; 

Where the mingled sky and water faded into fairy- 
land, 

Smaller than her tiny model, deftly launched from 
childhood's hand. 

With a statelier swell and longer, up the glacis of the 
shore, 

Came the waves that leapt so freshly in their youth, an 
hour before. 

So I made an end and, turning, reached a scallop- 
crested rock, 



FLOOD-TIDE. 37 

In the stormy spring-tides hurling back vhe tumult of 
their shock. 

There reclining, gazed a moment at the pebbles by my 
feet, 

Left behind the billowy armies on their oceanward 
retreat ; 

Thousands lying close together, where the hosts a pas- 
sage wore, 

Many-hued, and tesselated in a quaint mosaic floor. 

Thinking then upon their fitness, — each adjusted to 
its place, 

Fairly strewn, and smoothed by Nature with her own 
exceeding grace, — 

All at once some unseen warder drew the curtains wide 
apart, 

That awhile had cast their shadow on the picture of my 
heart ; 

Told me — " Thou thyself hast said it ; in thy calling 
be of cheer : 

Broader continents of action open up in every sphere ! 

Hold thy lot as great as any : each shall magnify his 
own, 

Each shall find his time to enter, though unheralded 
and lone, 

On the inner life's arena — there to sound his battle- 
cry, 

Self with self in secret tourney, underneath the silent 
sky. 

Strong of faith in that mute umpire, some have con- 
quered, and withstood 

All the pangs of long endurance, the dear pains of 
fortitude ; 

Felt a harsh misapprehension gall the wounds of mar- 
tyrdom ; 



38 



EARLY POEMS. 



In the present rancor measured even the seorn of days 

to come ; 
Known that never should the whiteness of their virtue 

shine revealed, 
Never should the truer Future rub the tarnish from the 

shield. 
That diviner abnegation hath not yet been asked of 

thee : 
Art thou able to attain it, if perchance it were to be ? 
O, our feeble tests of greatness ! Look for one so calm 

of soul 
As to take the even chalice of his life and drink the 

whole. 
Noble deeds are held in honor, but the wide world sorely 

needs 
Hearts of patience to unravel this, — the worth of com- 
mon deeds." 

As the darkened earth forever to the morning turns 

again ; 
As the dreaming soldier, after all the perilous cam- 
paign, 
Struggling long with horse and rider, in his sleep smites 

fiercely out, 
And, with sudden pang awaking, through the darkness 

peers about, — 
Hearing but the crickets chirrup loud, beneath his 

chimney-stone, 
Feeling but the warm heart throbbing, in the form 

beside his own, — 
Then to knowledge of his hamlet, dearer for the toil he 

knows, 
Comes at last, content to nestle in the sweets of his 

repose, 



FLOOD-TIDE. 39 

So fell I, from those high fancies, to the quiet of a 

heart 
Knowing well how Duty maketh each one's share the 

better part. 
As again I looked about me — North and South, and 

East and West — 
Now of all the wide world over still my haven seemed 

the best. 

Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory 
higher, 

Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crown- 
ing spire. 

Then the sailors shook their canvas to the dryness of 
the sun, 

And along the harbor-channel glided schooners, one by 
one. 

At the last I sought my cottage ; there, before the gar- 
den gate, 

By the lilac, stood my darling, looking for her truant 
mate. 

Stooping at the porch, we entered ; — where the morn- 
ing meal was laid, 

Turning over holy pages, one as pure and holy 
played, — 

Little Paul, who links more firmly our two hearts than 
clasp of gold ; 

And I caught a blessed sentence, while I took him to 
my hold : 

" Peace," it said, " O restless spirit, eager as the climbing 
wave ! 

With my peace there flows a largesse such as monarchs 
never gave." 

i857- 



4Q 



EARLY POEMS. 



APOLLO. 



VAINLY, burning Poets ! 
Ye wait for his inspiration, 
Even as kings of old 
Stood by the oracle-gates. 
Hasten back, he will say, hasten back 
To your provinces far away / 
There, at my own good time, 
Will I send my answer to you. 

Are ye not kings of song ? 
At last the god cometh ! 
The air runs over with splendor ; 
The fire leaps high on the altar ; 
Melodious thunders shake the ground. 
Hark to the Delphic responses ! 
Hark ! it is the god ! 



THE ORDEAL BY FIRE. 

TO many a one there comes a day 
So black with maledictions, they 
Hide every earthly hope away. 

In earlier woes the sufferer bore, 
Consolement entered at his door, 
And raised him gently from the floor. 

To this great anguish, newly come, 
All former sorrows, in their sum, 
Were but a faint exordium. 



THE ORDEAL BY FIRE. 

His days and nights are full of groans ; 
Sorely, and with a thousand moans, 
For many wanderings he atones. 

Old errors, vanquished for a space, 
Rise up to smite him in the face 
And threaten him with new disgrace. 

And others, shadows of the first, 
From slanderous charnel-houses burst, 
Pursuing, cry, Thou art accurst / 

Dear, feeble voices ask for bread ; 

The dross, for which he bowed his head 

So long, has taken wings and fled. 

The strong resources of his health 
Have softly slipt away by stealth : 
No future toil may bring him wealth. 

Dreading the shadow of his shame, 

False friends, who with the sunshine came. 

Forego the mention of his name. 

Thus on a fiery altar tost, 
The harvests of his life are lost 
In one consuming holocaust. 

What can he, but to beat the air, 
And, from the depth of his despair, 
Cry " Is there respite anywhere ? 

" Is Life but Death ? Is God unjust 
Shall all the castle of my trust 
Dissolve, and crumble into dust ? " 



41 



\2 



EARLY POEMS. 

There are, who, with a wild desire 
For slumber, blinded by the fire, 
Sink in its ashes and expire. 

God pity them ! tod harsh a test 
Has made them falter ; sore distrest, 
They barter everything for rest. 

But many, of a sterner mould, 
Themselves within themselves infold, 
Even make Death unloose his hold, 

Athough it were a grateful thing 
To drain the cup his heralds bring, 
And yield them to his ransoming ; 

To quaff the calm, Lethean wave, — 
In passionless tenure of the grave 
Forgetting all they could not save. 

What angels hold them up, among 
The ruins of their lives, so long ? 
What visions make their spirits strong ? 

In sackcloth, at the outer gate, 
They chant the burden of their fate, 
Yet are not wholly desolate. 

A blessed ray from darkness won 
It may be, even, to know the sun 
Hath distant lands he shines upon; 

It may be that they deem it vile 
For one to mount his funeral pile, 
Because the heavens cease to smile ; 



THE ORDEAL BY FIRE. 

That scorn of cowardice holds fast, 
Lighting the forehead to the last, 
Though all of bravery's hopes are past. 

Perchance the sequence of an art 
Leads to a refuge for the heart, — 
A sanctuary far apart. 

It may be that, in dearest eyes, 
They see the light of azure skies, 
And keep their faith in Paradise. 

Thou, who dost feel Life's vessel strand 
Full-length upon the shifting sand, 
And hearest breakers close at hand, 

Be strong and wait ! nor let the strife, 
With which the winds and waves are rife, 
Disturb that sacred inner life. 

Anon thou shalt regain the shore, 

And walk — though naked, maimed, and sore - 

A nobler being than before ! 

No lesser griefs shall work thee ill ; 
No malice shall have power to kill : 
Of woe thy soul has drunk its fill. 

Tempests, that beat us to the clay, 
Drive many a lowering cloud away, 
And bring a clearer, holier day. 

The fire, that every hope consumes, 
Either the inmost soul entombs 
Or evermore the face illumes ! 



43 



44 EARLY POEMS. 

Robes of asbestos do we wear; 

Before the memories we bear, 

The flames leap backward everywhere. 



THE PROTEST OF FAITH. 



DEAR Friend and Teacher, — not by word alone, 
But by the plenteous virtues shining out 
Along the zodiac of a good man's life ; 
Dear gentle friend ! from one so loved as you, — 
Because so loving, and so finely apt 
In tender ministry to a little flock, 
With whom you joy and suffer . . . and, withal, 
So constant to the spirit of our time 
That I must hold you of a different sort 
From those dry lichens on the altar steps, 
Those mutes in surplices, school-trained to sink 
The ashes of their own experience 
So low, in doctrinal catacombs, that none 
Find token they can love and mourn like us, — 
From such an one as you, I cannot brook 
What from these mummies were a pleasant draught 
Of bitter hyssop — pleasant unto me, 
Drunk from a chalice worthier men have held 
And emptied to the lees. 

I cannot brook 
The shake o' the head and earnest, sorrowing glance, 
Which often seem to say : — "Be wise in time ! 
Give up the iron key that locks your heart 



THE PROTEST OF FAITH. 45 

I grant you charity, and patient zeal, 

And something of a young, romantic love 

For what is good, as children love the fields 

And birds and babbling brooks, they know not why. 

You have your moral virtues, but you err : 

To err is fatal. O, my heart is faint 

Lest that sweet prize I win should not be yours ! " 

In some such wise I read your half-dropped thoughts ; 
Yet wondrous compensation falls to all, 
And every soul has strongholds of its own, 
Invisible, yet answering to its needs. 
And even I may have a secret tower 
Up storm-cleft Pisgah, whence I see beyond 
Jordan, and far across the happy plains, 
Where gleams the Holy City, like a queen, 
The crown of all our hopes and perfect faith. 
I may have gone somewhat within the veil, 
Though few repose serenely in the light 
Of that divinest splendor, till they shine, 
With countenance aglow, like him of old, — 
Prophet and priest and warrior, all in one. 
But every human path leads on to God ; 
He holds a myriad finer threads than gold, 
And strong as holy wishes, drawing us 
With delicate tension upward to Himself. 
You see the strand that reaches down to you ; 
Haply I see mine own, and make essay 
To. trace its glimmerings — up the shadowy hills 
Forever narrowing to that unknown sky. 

There grows a hedge about you pulpit-folk : 
You reason ex cathed?~a. Little gain 
Have we to clash in tourney on the least 



4 g EARLY POEMS, 

Of points, wherewith you trammel down the Faith, 

It being, at outset, understood right well 

By lay knights-errant, that their Reverend foes, 

Fore-pledged to hold their own, will sound their trumps, 

Though spearless and unhorsed ! Why take the field, 

When, at the best, both sides go bowing off 

With mutual courtesy, and fair white flags 

Afloat at camp, and every fight is drawn ? 

As soon encounter statues, balanced well 

Upon their granite, fashioned not to move, 

And drawing all mankind to hold in awe 

Their grim persistence. 

If, indeed, I sin 
In counting somewhat freely on that Love 
From which, through rolling ages, worlds have sprung, 
And — last and best of all — the lords of worlds, 
Through type on type uplifted from the clay ; 
If I have been exultant in the thought 
That such humanity came so near to God, 
He held us as His children, and would find 
Imperial progress through the halls of Time 
For every soul, — why, then, my crescent faith 
Clings round the promise ; if it spread beyond, 
You think, too far, I say that Peter sprang 
Upon the waves of surging Galilee, 
While all the eleven hugged the ship in fear : 
The waters were as stone unto his feet 
Until he doubted, even then the Christ 
Put forth a blessed hand, and drew him on 
To closer knowledge ! 

So, if it be mine 
First of us twain to pass the sable gates, 



THE PROTEST OF FAITH. 



47 



That guard so well their mysteries, and thou, 

With some dear friend, may'st stand beside my grave. 

Speak no such words as these : — " Not long ago 

His voice rang out as cheerly as mine own ; 

And we were friends, and, far into the nights, 

Would analyze the wisdom of old days 

By all the tests of Science in her prime ; 

Anon would tramp afield, to fruits and flowers, 

And the long prototypes of trees and beasts 

Graven in sandstone ; so, at last, would come, 

Through lanes of talk, to that perennial tree, — 

The Tree of Life, on which redemption hangs, 

But there fell out of tune ; we parted there, 

He bolstering up a creed too broad for me ! 

I held him kindly for an ardent soul, 

Who lacked not skill to make his argument 

Seem fair and specious. But he groped in doubt : 

His head and heart were young ; he wandered off, 

And fell afoul of all those theorists 

Who soften down our dear New England faith 

With German talk of ' Nature,' 'inner lights 

And harmonies ' : so, taken with the wind 

Of those high-sounding terms, he spoke at large, 

And held discussion bravely till he died. 

Here sleep his ashes ; where his soul may be, 

Myself, who loved him, do not care to think." 

The ecstasy of Faith has no such fears 
As those you nurse for me ! The marvellous love, 
Which folds the systems in a flood of light, 
Makes no crude works to shatter out of joint 
Through all the future. O, believe, with me, 
For every instinct in these hearts of ours 
A full fruition hastens ! O, believe 



48 EARLY POEMS. 

That promise greater than our greatest trust 

And loftiest aspiration ! Tell thy friend, 

Beside my grave : " He did the best he could, 

With earnest spirit polishing the lens 

By which he took the heavens in his ken, 

And through the empyrean sought for God ; 

He caught, or thought he caught, from time to time, 

Bright glimpses of the Infinite, on which 

He fed in rapturous and quiet joy, 

That helped him keep a host of troubles down. 

He went his way, — a different path from mine, 

But took his place among the ranks of men 

Who toil and suffer. If, in sooth, it be 

Religion keeps us up, this man had that. 

God grant his yearnings were a living faith ! 

Heaven lies above us : may we find him there 

Beside the waters still, and crowned with palms ! " 



THE FRESHET. 

A CONNECTICUT IDYL. 

T AST August, of a three weeks' country tour, 
J— ' Five dreamy days were passed amid old elms 
And older mansions, and in leafy dales, 
That knew us till our elders pushed us forth 
To larger life, — as eagles push their young, 
New-fledged and wondering, from the eyrie's edge, 
To cater for themselves. 

I fell in, there, 
With Gilbert Ripley, once my chum at Yale. 
Poor Gilbert groaned along a double year, — 



THE FRESHET. 



49 



Read, spoke, boxed, fenced, rowed, trod the foot-ball 

ground, — 
Loving the college library more than Greek, 
His meerschaum most of all. But when we came 
Together, gathered from the breathing-time 
They give the fellows while the dog-days last, 
He found the harness chafe ; then grew morose, 
And kicked above the traces, going home 
Hardly a Junior, but a sounder man, 
In mind and body, than a host who win 
Your baccalaureate honors. There he stayed, 
Half tired of bookmen, on his father's farm, 
And gladly felt the plough-helve. In a year 
The old man gave his blessing to the son, 
And left his life, as 't were his harvest-field, 
When work was over. Gilbert hugged the farm, 
Now made his own, besides a pretty sum 
In good State Sixes ; partly worked the land, 
With separate theories for every field, 
And partly led the student-life of old, 
Mouthing his Shakespeare's ballads to himself 
Among the meadow-mows ; or, when he read 
In the evening, found a picture of his bull, 
Just brought from Devon, sleek as silk, loom in 
Before his vision. Thus he weighed his tastes, 
Each against each, in happiest equipoise. 
The neighbor farmers seeing he had thrift 
That would not run to waste, and pardoning all 
Beyond their understanding, wished him well. 

But when I saw him stride among his stock, — 
Straight-shouldered cattle, breathing of the field, — 
Saw him how blowze and hearty ; then, at eve, 
Close sitting by his mother in the porch, 

3 D 



50 EARLY POEMS. 

Heard him discuss the methods of the times, 
The need our country has of stalwart men, 
Who scorn the counter and will till the land, 
Strong-handed, free of thought, — I somehow felt 
The man was noble, and his simple life 
More like the pattern given in the Mount 
Than mine, hedged close about with city life 
And grim, conventional manners. 

So much, then, 
For Gilbert Ripley. Not to dwell too long 
Upon his doings, let me tell the tale 
I got from him, one hazy afternoon, 
When he and I had wandered to the bridge, 
New-built across our favorite of the streams 
That skirt the village, — here three miles apart, 
Twin currents, joining in a third below. 

There memory's shallop bore us dreamily, 
Through changeful windings, to the long, long days 
Of June vacations. How we boys would thrid 
The alder thickets at the water's edge, 
Conjecturing forward, though the Present lay 
Like Eden round us ; for the Future shone — 
The sun to which each young heart turned for light ! 
What wild conceits of great, oracular lives, 
Ourselves would equal ! but let that go by: 
Each has gone by, in turn, to humbler fates. 
Sometimes we angled, and our trolling hooks 
Swung the gray pickerel from his reedy shoals. 
Beyond a horseshoe bend, the current's force 
Wore out a deeper channel, where the shore 
Fell off, precipitous, on the western side. 
There dived the bathers ; there I learned to swim, — 



THE FRESHET. 

Flung far into the middle stream by one 

Who watched my gaspings, laughing, till my limbs, 

Half of themselves, struck out, and held me up. 

Far down, a timbered dam, from bank to bank, 

Shut back the waters in a shadowy lake, 

About a mimic island. Languidly 

The chestnuts still infoliate its space, 

And still the whispering flags are intertwined 

With whitest water-lilies near the marge. 

Close by, the paper-mill, with murmurous wheel, 

Still glistens through the branches, while its score 

Of laughing maidens throng the copse at noon. 

But we, with careless arms upon the rail, 
Peered through and through the water ; almost saw 
Its silvery Naiads, from their wavering depths, 
Gleam with strange faces upward ; almost heard 
Sweet voices carol : "Ah, you all come back ! 
We charm your childhood ; then you roam away, 
To float on alien waters, like the winds ; 
But, ah, you all come back, — come dreaming back ! 

At last I broke the silence : " See," I said 
To Gilbert, " see how fair our dear old stream ! 
How calm, beneath the shadow of these piers, 
It eddies in and out, and cools itself 
In slumberous ripples whispering repose." 

But he made answer : " Yes, this August day 
The wave is summer-charmed, the fields are hazed ; 
But in the callow Spring, when Easter winds 
Are on us, laden with rain, these fickle streams — 
More gentle now than in his cradled sleep 
Some Alexander — take up arms, spread wide,. 



5* 



^ 2 EARLY POEMS. 

Leap high and cruel in a fierce campaign 
Along their valleys. See this trellised bridge, 
New-built, and firmer than the one from which 
We fellows dropped the line : — that went away 
Two years ago, like straw before a gale, 
In the great April flood, of which you heard, 
When George and Lucy Dorrance lost their lives. 
I saw them perish. You remember her, — 
She that was Lucy Hall, — a charming girl, 
The fairest of our schoolmates, with a heart 
Light as her smile and fastened all upon 
The boy that won her ; yet her glances fell 
Among us, right and left, like shooting stars 
In clear October nights when winds are still. 

" That year our Equinoctial came along 
Ere the snow left us. Under mountain pines 
White drifts lay frozen like the dead, and down 
Through many a gorge the bristling hemlocks crossed 
Their spears above the ice-enfettered brooks ; 
But the pent river wailed, through prison walls, 
For freedom and the time to rend its chains. 
At last it came : five days a drenching rain 
Flooded the country ; snow-drifts fell away ; 
The brooks grew rivers, and the river here — 
A ravenous, angry torrent — tore up banks, 
And overflowed the meadows, league on league. 
Great cakes of ice, four-square, with mounds of hay, 
Fence-rails, and scattered drift-wood, and huge beams 
From broken dams above us, mill-wheel ties, 
Smooth lumber, and the torn-up trunks of trees, 
Swept downward, strewing all the land about. 
Sometimes the flood surrounded, unawares, 
Stray cattle, or a flock of timorous sheep, 



THE FRESHET. 

And bore them with it, struggling, till the ice 
Beat shape and being from them. You know how 
These freshets scour our valleys. So it raged 
A night and day ; but when the day grew night 
The storm fell off ; lastly, the sun went down 
Quite clear of clouds, and ere he came again 
The flood began to lower. 

" Through the rise 
We men had been at work, like water-sprites, 
Lending a helping hand to cottagers 
Along the lowlands. Now, at early morn, 
The banks were sentry-lined with thrifty swains, 
Who hauled great stores of drift-wood up the slope. 
But toward the bridge our village maidens soon 
Came flocking, thick as swallows after storms, 
When, with light wing, they skim the happy fields 
And greet the sunshine. Danger mostly gone, 
They watched the thunderous passage of the flood 
Between the abutments, while the upper stream, 
Far as they saw, lay like a seething strait, 
From hill to hill. Below, with gradual fall 
Through narrower channels, all was clash and clang 
And inarticulate tumult. Through the grove 
Yonder, our picnic-ground, the driving tide 
Struck a new channel, and the craggy ice 
Scored down its saplings. Following with the rest 
Came George and Lucy, not three honeymoons 
Made man and wife, and happier than a pair 
Of cooing ring-doves in the early June. 

" Two piers, you know, bore up the former bridge, 
Cleaving the current, wedge-like, on the north ; 
Between them stood our couple, intergrouped 



53 



54 



EARLY POEMS. 



With many others. On a sudden loomed 

An immolating terror from above, — 

A floating field of ice, where fifty cakes 

Had clung together, mingled with a mass 

Of debris from the upper conflict, logs 

Woven in with planks and fence-rails ; and in front 

One huge, old, fallen trunk rose like a wall 

Across the channel. Then arose a cry 

From all who saw it, clamoring, Flee the bridge ! 

Run shoreward for your lives ! and all made haste, 

Eastward and westward, till they felt the ground 

Stand firm beneath them ; but, with close-locked arms, 

Lucy and George still looked, from the lower rail, 

Toward the promontory where we stood, 

Nor saw the death, nor seemed to hear the cry. 

Run George ! run Lucy / shouted all at once : 

Too late, too late ! for, with resistless crash, 

Against both piers that mighty ruin lay 

A space that seemed an hour, yet far too short 

For rescue. Swaying slowly back and forth, 

With ponderous tumult, all the bridge went off; 

Piers, beams, planks, railings snapped their groaning 

ties 
And fell asunder ! 

" But the middle part, 
Wrought with great bolts of iron, like a raft 
Held out awhile, whirled onward in the wreck 
This way and that, and washed with freezing spray. 
Faster than I can tell you, it came down 
Beyond our point, and in a flash we saw 
George, on his knees, close-clinging for dear life, 
One arm around the remnant of the rail, 
One clasping Lucy. We were pale as they, 



THE FRESHET. 

Powerless to save ; but even as they swept 
Across the bend, and twenty stalwart men 
Ran to and fro with clamor for A rope 1 
A boat ! — their cries together reached the shore : 
Save her / Save him / — so true Love conquers all. 
Furlongs below they still more closely held 
Each other, 'mid a thousand shocks of ice 
And seething horrors ; till, at last, the end 
Came, where the river, scornful of its bed, 
Struck a new channel, roaring through the grove. 
There, dashed against a naked beech that stood 
Grimly in front, their shattered raft gave up 
Its precious charge ; and then a mist of tears 
Blinded all eyes, through which we seemed to see 
Two forms in death-clasp whirled along the flood, 
And all was over. 

" Then from out the crowd 
Certain went up the lane, and broke the news 
To Lucy's widowed mother ; she spoke not, 
Nor wept, nor murmured, but with stony glare 
Took in her loss, like Niobe, and to bed 
Moved stolidly and never rose again. 
Old Farmer Dorrance gave a single groan, 
And hurried down among us — all the man, 
Though white with anguish — as we took our course 
Around the meadows, searching for the dead. 

" An eddying gulf ran up the hither bank, 
Close by the paper-mill, and there the flood 
Gave back its booty ; there we found them laid, 
Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees, [ 
Not many feet apart : so Love's last clasp 
Held lingeringly, until the cruel ice 



55 



56 EARLY POEMS. 

Battered its fastenings. On a rustic bier, 
Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter ferns, 
We placed them, side by side, and bore them home. 
The old man walked behind them, by himself, 
And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears." 

So Gilbert told his story ; I, meanwhile, 
Followed his finger's pointing, as it marked 
Each spot he mentioned, like a teacher's wand. 
But now the sun hung low ; from many a field 
The loitering kine went home with tinkling bells. 
Slow-turning, toward the farm we made our way, 
And met a host of maidens, merry-eyed, 
Whom I knew not, yet caught a frequent glance 
I seemed to know, that half-way brought to mind 
Sweet eyes I loved to watch in school-boy days, — 
Sweet sister-eyes to those that glistened now. 



THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 



H 



ARK ! the jingle 
Of the sleigh-bells' song ! 
Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle ; 

Swiftly throng 
Norseland fancies, as we sail along. 

Like the maiden 
Of some fairy-tale, 
Lying, spell-bound, in her diamond-laden 

Bridal veil, 
Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale. 




'Hark! the jingle 
Of the sleigh-bells' song." Page 56. 



THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 57 

High above us 
Gleams the ancient moon, 
Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us : 

Could their tune 
Only fill our ears at heaven's noon, 

You and I, love, 
With a wild delight, 
Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love, 

This same night, 
Straight to join them in their starry height ! 

Closer nestle, 
Dearest, to my side. 
What enchantment, in our magic vessel 

Thus to glide, 
Making music, on a silver tide ! 

Jingle ! jingle ! 
How the fields go by ! 
Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle, 

Far and nigh ; 
Is the ground beneath us, or the sky ? 

Heavenward yonder, 
In the lurid north, 
From Valhalla's gates that roll asunder, 

Red and wroth, 
Balder's funeral flames are blazing forth. 

O, what splendor ! 
How the hues expire ! 
All the elves of light their tribute render 

To the pyre, 
Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire. 
3* 



58 EARLY POEMS. 

Jingle ! jingle ! 
Let the Earth go by ! 
With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle ; 

You and I 
Will shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh ! 



THE BALLAD OF LAGER BIER. 

T N fallow college days, Tom Harland, 
■*■ We both have known the ways of Yale, 
And talked of many a nigh and far land, 

O'er many a famous tap of ale. 
There still they sing their Gaudeamus, 

And see the road to glory clear ; 
But taps, that in our day were famous, 

Have given place to Lager Bier. 

Now, settled in this island-city, 

We let new fashions have their weight ; 
Though none too lucky — more 's the pity ! ■ 

Can still beguile our humble state 
By finding time to come together, 

In every season of the year, 
In sunny, wet, or windy weather, 

And clink our mugs of Lager Bier. 

On winter evenings, cold and blowing, 
'T is good to order " 'alf-and-'alf " ; 

To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing, 
And laugh a hearty English laugh ; 



THE BALLAD OF LAGER BIER. 

Or even a sip of mountain whiskey- 
Can raise a hundred phantoms dear 

Of days when boyish blood was frisky, 
And no one heard of Lager Bier. 

.We 've smoked in summer with Oscanyan, 

Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar, 
Until above our heads the banyan 

Or palm-tree seemed to spread afar ; 
And, then and there, have drunk his sherbet, 

Tinct with the roses of Cashmere : 
That Orient calm ! who would disturb it 

With Norseland calls for Lager Bier ? 

There 's Paris chocolate, — nothing sweeter, 

At midnight, when the dying strain, 
Just warbled by La Favorita, 

Still hugs the music-haunted brain ; 
Yet of all bibulous compoundings, 

Extracts or brewings, mixed or clear, 
The best, in substance and surroundings, 

For frequent use, is Lager Bier. 

Karl Schaeffer is a stalwart brewer, 

Who has above his vaults a hall, 
Where — fresh-tapped, foaming, cool, and pure 

He serves the nectar out to all. 
Tom Harland, have you any money ? 

Why, then, we'll leave this hemisphere, 
This western land of milk and honey, 

For one that flows with Lager Bier. 

Go, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed maiden, 
My German Hebe ! hasten through 



59 



6q EARLY POEMS. 

Yon smoke-cloud, and return thou laden 
With bread and cheese and bier for two. 

Limburger suits this bearded fellow ; 
His brow is high, his taste severe : 

But I 'm for Schweitzer, mild and yellow, 
To eat with bread and Lager Bier. 



Ah, yes ! the Schweitzer hath a savor 

Of marjoram and mountain thyme, 
An odoriferous, Alpine flavor ; 

You almost hear the cow-bells chime 
While eating it, or, dying faintly, 

The Ranz-des-vaches entrance the ear, 
Until you feel quite Swiss and saintly, 

Above your glass of Lager Bier. 

Here comes our drink, froth-crowned and sunlit, 

In goblets with high-curving arms, 
Drawn from a newly opened runlet, 

As bier must be, to have its charms. 
This primal portion each shall swallow 

At one draught, for a pioneer ; 
And thus a ritual usage follow 

Of all who honor Lager Bier. 

Glass after glass in due succession, 

Till, borne through midriff, heart, and brain, 
He mounts his throne and takes possession, — 

The genial Spirit of the grain ! 
Then comes the old Berserker madness 

To make each man a priest and seer, 
And, with a Scandinavian gladness, 

Drink deeper draughts of Lager Bier ! 



THE BALLAD OF LAGER BIER. 6 1 

Go, maiden, fill again our glasses ! 

While, with anointed eyes, we scan 
The blouse Teutonic lads and lasses, 

The Saxon — Pruss — Bohemian, 
The sanded floor, the cross-beamed gables, 

The ancient Flemish paintings queer, 
The rusty cup-stains on the tables, 

The terraced kegs of Lager Bier. 

And is it Gottingen, or Gotha, 

Or Munich's ancient Wagner Brei, 
Where each Bavarian drinks his quota, 

And swings a silver tankard high ? 
Or some ancestral Gast-Haus lofty 

In Nuremburg — of famous cheer 
When Hans Sachs lived, and where, so oft, he 

Sang loud the praise of Lager Bier ? 

For even now some curious glamour 

Has brought about a misty change ! 
Things look, as in a moonlight dream, or 

Magician's mirror, quaint and strange. 
Some weird, phantasmagoric notion 

Impels us backward many a year, 
And far across the northern ocean, 

To Fatherlands of Lager Bier. 

As odd a throng I see before us 

As ever haunted Brocken's height, 
Carousing, with unearthly chorus, 

On any wild Walpurgis-night ; 
I see the wondrous art-creations ! 

In proper guise they all appear, 
And, in their due and several stations, 

Unite in drinking Lager Bier. 



62 EARLY POEMS. 

I see in yonder nook a trio : 

There 's Doctor Faust, and, by his side, 
Not half so love-distraught as Io, 

Is gentle Margaret, heaven-eyed ; 
That man in black beyond the waiter — 

I know him by his fiendish leer — 
Is Mephistophiles, the traitor ! 

And how he swigs his Lager Bier ! 

Strange if great Goethe should have blundered, 

Who says that Margaret slipt and fell 
In Anno Domini Sixteen Hundred, 

Or thereabout ; and Faustus, — well, 
We won't deplore his resurrection, 

Since Margaret is with him here, 
But, under her serene protection, 

May boldly drink our Lager Bier. 

That bare-legged gypsy, small and lithy, 

Tanned like an olive by the sun, 
Is little Mignon ; sing us, prithee, 

Kennst du das Land, my pretty one ! 
Ah, no ! she shakes her southern tresses, 

As half in doubt and more in fear ; 
Perhaps the elvish creature guesses 

We 've had too much of Lager Bier. 

There moves, full-bodiced, ripe, and human, 

With merry smiles to all who come, 
Karl Schasffer's wife, — the very woman 

Whom Rubens drew his Venus from ! 
But what a host of tricksome graces 

Play round our fairy Undine here, 
Who pouts at all the bearded faces, 

And, laughing, brings the Lager Bier. 



THE BALLAD OF LAGER BLEU. 

" Sit down, nor chase the vision farther, 

You 're tied to Yankee cities still ! " 
I hear you, but so much the rather 

Should Fancy travel where she will. 
Yet let the dim ideals scatter ; 

One puff, and lo ! they disappear ; 
The comet, next, or some such matter, 

We '11 talk above our Lager Bier. 

Now, then, your eyes begin to brighten, 

And marvellous theories to flow ; 
A philosophic theme you light on, 

And, spurred and booted, off you go ! 
If e'er — to drive Apollo's phaeton — 

I need an earthly charioteer, 
This tall-browed genius I will wait on, 

And prime him first with Lager Bier. 

But higher yet, in middle Heaven, 

Your steed seems taking flight, my friend ; 
You read the secret of the Seven, 

And on through trackless regions wend ! 
Don't vanish in the Milky Way, for 

This afternoon you 're wanted here ; 
Come back ! come back ! and help me pay for 

The bread and cheese and Lager Bier. 



63 






64 EARLY POEMS. 



HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY. 

JOHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a steadfast 
Yankee farmer, 
Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of 
might. 
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife 
grew warmer, 
Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in 
the night ; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Came homeward in the morning — to find his house 
burned down. 

Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for 
freedom ; 
Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading 
band; 
And he and his brave boys vowed — so might Heaven 
help and speed 'em ! — 
They would save those grand old prairies from the 
curse that blights the land ; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
3aid, " Boys, the Lord will aid us ! " and he shoved 
his ramrod down. 

And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day 
and even, 
Saving Kansas from its peril ; and their very lives 
seemed charmed, 



HOW BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY. 65 

Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of 
Heaven, — 
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed 
all unarmed ; 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a ter- 
rible frown ! 

Then they seized another brave boy, — not amid the 
heat of battle, 
But in peace, behind his ploughshare, — and they 
loaded him with chains, 
And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad 
their cattle, 
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew 
out his brains ; 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's 
vengeance down. 

And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the 
Almighty, 
He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed 
and torn him so ; 
He would seize it by the vitals ; he would crush it day 
and night ; he 
Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow 
for blow, 

That Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in 
town ! 



66 EARLY POEMS. 

Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild 
blue eye grew wilder, 
And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing 
battle from afar ; 
And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife 
waxed milder, 
Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border 
War, 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, . 
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare 
and frown. 

So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes 
behind him, 
Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are 
born, 
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew 
where to find him, 
Or whether he 'd turned parson, or was jacketed and 
shorn ; 

For Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's 
gown. 

He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shov- 
els, and such trifles ; 
But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train, 
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved 
Sharp's rifles ; 
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there 
again. 



HOW BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY. $y 

Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
" Boys, we 've got an army large enough to march 
and take the town ! 



" Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the ne- 
groes and then arm them ; 
Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the po- 
tent South. 
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims 
rise to harm them — 
These Virginians ! who believed not, nor would 
heed the warning mouth." 
Says Old Brown, 
• Osawatomie Brown, 

" The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not 
John Brown." 

'T was the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a 
Sunday : 
" This good work," declared the captain, " shall be 
on a holy night ! " 
It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of 
Monday, 
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen pri- 
vates — black and white, 
Captain Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the 
sentry down ; 

Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets 
and the cannon ; 
Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one 
by one ; 



(ft EARLY POEMS, 

Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran 
on, 
And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was 
done. 

Mad Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took 
the town. 

Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder 
made he ; 
It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's 
coup d^etat. 
" Cut the wires ! Stop the rail-cars ! Hold the streets 
and bridges ! " said he, 
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for 
'guiding star, — 

This Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown ; 
And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the 
town. 

Then was riding and railroading and expressing here 
and thither ; 
And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charles- 
town Volunteers, 
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia has- 
tened whither 
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand 
grenadiers. 

General Brown ! 
Osawatomie Brown ! ! 
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pour- 
ing down. 



HOW BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY. £g 

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old 
Brown's durance, 
And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke 
out, 
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the 
marvellous assurance — 
Only nineteen — thus to seize the place and drive 
them straight about ; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Found an army come to take him, encamped around 
the town. 

But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, 
was too risky ; 
So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government 
Marines, 
Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their 
souls with Bourbon whiskey, 
Till they battered down Brown's castle with their lad- 
ders and machines ; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave 
old crown. 



Tallyho ! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying ! 
In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily 
away ; 
And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too 
late for slaying, 
Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his 
clay ; 



7o 



EARL Y POEMS. 



And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them 
laid him down. 

How the conquerors wore their laurels ; how they has- 
tened on the trial ; 
How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the 
Charlestown court-house floor ; 
How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all de- 
nial ; 
What the brave old madman told them, — these are 
known the country o'er. 

" Hang Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown," 
Said the judge, " and all such rebels ! " with his most 
judicial frown. 

But, Virginians, don't do it ! for I tell you that the 
flagon, 
Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first 
poured by Southern hands ; 
And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the 

red gore of the dragon, 
May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your 
slave-worn lands ! 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
May trouble you more than ever, when you 've nailed 
his coffin down ! 

November, 1859. 




SONNETS 



HOPE DEFERRED. 

BRING no more flowers and books and precious 
things ! 
O speak no more of our beloved Art, 
Of summer haunts, — melodious wanderings 
In leafy refuge from this weary mart ! 
Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart ; 
Now every word a newer sadness brings ! 
Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apart 
From verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings, 
Nor craves for more than food from day to day ; 
So long bereft of wildwood joy and song, 
Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long, 
The music born within him dies away ; ( 

Even the song he loved becomes a pain, 
Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain. 



/2 



SONNETS. 



A MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

SHE seemed an angel to our infant eyes ! 
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed 
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled, — 
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies 
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise, — 
We looked to see the pinions half concealed. 
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield 
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise, 
And since have little known her, but have grown 
To see another mother, tenderly 
Watch over sleeping children of my own. 
Perchance the years have changed her : yet alone 
This picture lingers ; still she seems to me 
The fair young angel of my infancy. 




POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



qp 




POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 

ELFIN SONG. 

FROM "THE RIME OF THE ELLE-KING." 



T^AR in the western ocean's breast 

-■- The summer fairies have found a nest ; 

The heavens ever unclouded smile 

Over the breadth of their beautiful isle ; 

Through it a hundred streamlets flow, 

In spangled paths, to the sea below, 

And woo the vales that beside them lie 

With a low and tremulous minstrelsy. 

The elfin brood have homes they love 

In the earth below and skies above ; 

But the haunt which of all they love the best 

Is the palm-crowned isle, in the ocean's breast, 

That mortals call Canary ; 
And many an Ariel, blithesome, airy, 
And each laughing Fay and lithesome Fairy, 
Know well the mystical way in the West 

To the sweet isle of Canary. 



7 6 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



With an ever-sounding choral chant, 
And a clear, cerulean, wild desire 
To clasp that fairy island nigher, 
The sinuous waves of ocean pant ; 
For here all natural things are free 
To mingle in passionate harmony. 
The light from their mirror turns away 
With a golden splendor, in the day, 
But nightly, when coroneted Even 
Marshals the shining queen of heaven, 
There gleams a silvery scenery, 
From the rim of the great prismatic sea 

Around the isle of Canary, 
To the central crags of Pisgatiri, 
Where the crested eagle builds his eyry, 

Scanning the shores of sweet Canary. 

3- 

Lustrously sailing here and there, 

Afloat in the beatific air, 

Birds, of purple and blue and gold, 

Pour out their music manifold ; 

All day long in the leas they sing, 

While the sun-kissed flowers are blossoming 

At eve, when the dew-drop feeds the rose, 

And the fragrant water-lilies close, 

The marvellous-throated nightingale 

With a dying music floods each vale, 

Till the seaward breezes, listening, stay 

To catch the harmony of his lay 

And cool the air of Canary ; 
And thus the melodies ever vary, 
In the vales of the ocean aviary, 

In the blissful valleys of sweet Canary. 



ELFIN SONG. 

4- 
The Elle- King's palace was builded there 
By elves of water and earth and air ; 
Lovingly worked each loyal sprite, 
And it grew to life in a summer night. 
Over the sheen of its limpid moat, 
Wafted along, in a magic boat, 
By fairy wings that fan the sails, 
And eddying through enchanted vales, 
Through walls of amber and crystal gates, 
We come where a fairy warder waits ; 
And so, by many a winding way 
Where sweet bells jingle and fountains play, 
To the inmost, royalest room of all, — 
The elfm monarch's reception-hall, 

The pearl and pride of Canary ! 
To guard its fastness the elves are wary, 
And no weird thing, of pleasure chary, 

Can enter with evil in sweet Canary ! 

5- 
All that saddens, and care and pain, 
Are banished far from that fair domain ; 
There forever, by day and night, 
Is naught but pleasance and love's delight ; 
Daily, the Genii of the flowers 
Shade with beauty a hundred bowers ; 
Nightly, the Gnomes of precious stones 
Emblazon and light a hundred thrones ; 
And the Elves of the field, so swift and mute, 
Bring wine and honey and luscious fruit ; 
And the Sylphs of the air, at noontide, cool 
The depths of each bower and vestibule ; 



77 



78 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 

And all are gay, — from the tricksome Fay 
Who flutters in woodlands far away, 
To the best-beloved attendant Elf, 
And the royal heart of the King himself, 

Who rules in bright Canary ; 
And the laboring Fairies are blithe and merry, 
Who press the juice from the swollen berry 

That reddens the vines of sweet Canary. 

6. 
What if there be a fated day 
When the Faery Isle shall pass away, 
And its beautiful groves and fountains seem 
The myths of a long, delicious dream ! 
A century's joys shall first repay 
Our hearts, for the evil of that day ; 
And the Elfin- King has sworn to wed 
A daughter of Earth, whose child shall be, 
By cross and water hallowe'd, 
From the fairies' doom forever free. 
What if there be a fated day ! 
It is far away ! it is far away ! 
Maiden, fair Maiden, I, who sing 
Of this summer isle am the island King. 
I come from its joys to make thee mine : 
Half of my kingdom shall be thine ; 
Our horses of air and ocean wait — 
Then hasten, and share the Elle- King's state 

In the sweet isle of Canary ; 
And many an Ariel, blithesome, airy, 
And each laughing Fay and lithesome Fairy, 
Shall rovingly hover around and over thee, 
And the love of a king shall evermore cover thee, 

Nightly and daily in sweet Canary. 
1850. 



AM A VI. 



AMAVI. 



79' 



T LOVED : and in the morning sky, 
-*■ A magic castle upward grew ! 
Cloud-haunted turrets pointing high 

Forever to the dreamy blue ; 

Bright fountains leaping through and through 
The golden sunshine ; on the air 

Gay banners streaming ; — never drew 
Painter or poet scene more fair. 

And in that castle I would live, 

And in that castle I would die ; 
And there, in curtained bowers, would give 

Heart-warm responses, sigh for sigh ; 

There, when but one sweet face was nigh, 
The hours should lightly move along, 

And ripple, as they glided by, 
Like stanzas of an antique song. 

O foolish heart ! O young romance, 

That faded with the noonday sun ! 
Alas, for gentle dalliance, 

For life-long pleasures never won ! 

O for a season dead and gone ! 
A wizard time, which then did seem 

Only a prelude, leading on 
To sweeter portions of the dream. 

She died, — nor wore my orange flowers : — 
No longer, in the morning sky, 



! 



80 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 

That magic castle lifts its towers 
Which shone, awhile, so lustrously. 
Torn are the bannerols, and dry 

The silver fountains in its halls ; 
But the drear sea, with endless sigh, 

Moans round and over the crumbled walls. 



Let the winds blow ! let the white surge 

Ever among those ruins wail ! 
Its moaning is a welcome dirge 

For wishes that could not avail. 

Let the winds blow ! a fiercer gale 
Is wild within me ! what may quell 

That sullen tempest ? I must sail 
Whither, O whither, who can tell ! 



ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE. 



" Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not'' 

The Tempest. 



QUEEN of the shadowy clime ! 
Thou of the fairy-spell and wondrous lay 
Sweet Romance ! breathe upon my way, 
Not with the breath of this degenerate time, 
But of that age when life was summer play, 
When Nature wore a verdurous hue, 
And Earth kept holiday ; 
When on the ground Chaldaean shepherds lay, 



ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE. 8 1 

Gazing all night, with calm, creative view, 

Into the overhanging blue, 
And found, amid the many-twinkling stars, 

Warriors and maidens fair, 
Heroes of marvellous deeds and direful wars, 

Serpents and flaming hair, 

The Dragon and the Bear, 
A silvery Venus and a lurid Mars. 



Come at thy lover's call, 
Thou, that, with embraces kind, 
Throwing thy tendrils round the lives of all, 
Something in all to beautify dost find ! 
So thine own ivy, on the Gothic wall, 
Or pendent from the arms 
Of gnarle"d oaks, where'er its clusters fall, 
Clings to adorn and adds perennial charms. 
And therefore, Romance, would I greet 
Thee by the fairest of fair names, 
Calling thee debonair and sweet ; 
For sweet thou art — inspiring Manhood's dreams, 
When all aweary of the actual life ; 
And sweet thy influence seems 
To Woman, shrinking from the strife, 
The sordid tumult of the wrangling mart. 

But doubly sweet thou art, 
Leading the tender child by gentle streams, 
Among the lilies of our flowery Youth ; 

Filling his all-believing heart 
With thoughts that glorify the common truth ; 
Building before him, in the lustrous air, 
Ethereal palaces and castles fair. 

4* F 



82 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



With such mild innocence the Earth 
Received thy blessings at her birth ; 
And in the pastoral days of yore, 

To Man's enchanted gaze, 
Nature was fair — O, how much more 

Than in our wiser days ! 
Then deities of sylvan form, 
While yet the hearts of men were young and warm, 
Like shepherds wandered through the arching groves, 
Or sang aloud, the listening flocks among, 

Sweet legends of their loves ; 
Then Cupid and fair Psyche breathed their vows, — 
He with the feathered darts and bow unstrung, 

And garlands on his brows ; 
She folding gently to her bosom doves 
Snow-white, forever, as their mistress, young; 
And, as they sighed together, peerless Joy 
Enwreathed the maiden and the raptured boy ! 



Yes ! on romantic pilgrimage, 
To the calm piety of Nature's shrine, 
Through summer-paths, thou ledst our human-kind, 
With influence divine. 
In that orient, elden age, 
Ere man had learned to wage 
Dispassionate war against his natural mind, 

Thy voice of mystery, 
Reading aloud the Earth's extended page, 
Bade human aspirations find 



ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE. $$ 

In the cool fountain and the forest-tree 

A sentient imagery ; 
The flowing river and the murmuring wind, 
The land — the sea — 

Were all informed by thee ! 



v. 
Through coral grottoes wandering and singing, 
The merry Nereid glided to her cave ; 
Anon, with warm, luxurious motion flinging 
Her sinuous form above the moonlit wave, 

To the charmed mariner gave 
A glimpse of snowy arms and amber tresses, 

While on his startled ear 
The sea-nymph's madrigal fell clear ; 

Then to the far recesses, 
Where drowsy Neptune wears the emerald crown, 

Serenely floated down, 
Leaving the mariner all amort with fear. 

In the under-opening wood, 
What time the Gods had crowned the full-grown year, 
The Dryad and the Hamadryad stood 

Among the fallow deer ; 
Bending the languid branches of their trees, 

With every breeze, 
To view their image in the fountains near : — 
The fountains ! whence the white-limbed Naiads sang, 
Pouring upon the air melodious trills, 
And, while the echoes through the forest rang, 
The white-limbed Naiads of a thousand rills 
Far o'er the Arcadian vales a paean spread. 
Led by Diana, in the dewy dawn, 
The Oread sisters chased the dappled fawn 



8 4 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 



Through all the coverts of their native hills ; 
Home, with the spoils, at sultry noon they fled, — 

Home to their shaded bowers, 
Where, with the ivy, and those sacred flowers 
That now have faded from the weary earth, 
Each laughing Oread crowned an Oread's head. 
The mountains echoed back their maiden mirth, 
Rousing old Pan, who, from a secret lair, 
Shook the wild tangles of his frosty hair, 
And laid him down again with sullen roar : 
But now the frightened nymphs like statues stand, 
One balancing her body half in air, 
Dreading to hear again that tumult sore ; 
One, with a liquid tremor in her eye, 
Waving above her head a glimmering hand ; 
Till suddenly, like dreams, away they fly, 
Leaving the forest stiller than before ! 



VI. 

Such was thy power, O Pastoral Romance ! 
In that ambrosial age of classic fame, 

The spirit to entrance. 
Fain would I whisper of the latter days, 

When, in thy royal name, 
The mailed knights encountered lance to lance, 
All for sweet Romance and fair ladies' praise ; 
But no ! I bowed the knee 
And vowed allegiance to thee, 
As I beheld thee in thy golden prime, 
And now from thy demesne must haste away : 
Perchance that of the aftertime, 
Of nodding plumes and chivalrous array, 
In aftertime I sing a roundelay. 



ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE. 



Fair Spirit of ethereal birth, 
In whom such mysteries and beauties blend ! 
Still from thine ancient dwelling-place descend 
And idealize our too material earth ; 
Still to the Bard thy chaste conceptions lend, 
To him thine early purity renew ; 
Round every image grace majestic throw ! 
Till rapturously the living song shall glow 
With inspiration as thy being true, 
And Poesy's creations, decked by thee, 
Shall wake the tuneful thrill of sensuous ecstasy. 

1850. 



85 




ALICE OF MONMOUTH, 



IDYL OF THE GREAT WAR, 



OTHER POEMS. 



1864. 



ML 



tZCfjts Fahtme 

IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY 
OF 

C. F. S. 

Died: May 13, 1863. 



t 




ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 
I. 



TT ENDRICK VAN GHELT of Monmouth shore, 
-*- J- His fame still rings the county o'er ! 

The stock that he raised, the stallion he rode, 

The fertile acres his farmers sowed ; 

The dinners he gave ; the yacht which lay 

At his fishing-dock in the Lower Bay ; 

The suits he waged, through many a year, 

For a rood of land behind his pier, — 

Of these the chronicles yet remain 

From Navesink Heights to Freehold Plain. 

2. 

The Shrewsbury people in autumn help 
Their sandy toplands with marl and kelp, 
And their peach and apple orchards fill 
The gurgling vats of the cross-road mill. 
They tell, as each twirls his tavern-can, 
Wonderful tales of that stanch old man, 



9 2 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



And they boast, of the draught they have tasted and 

smelt, 
" 'T is good as the still of Hendrick Van Ghelt ! " 

3- 
Were he alive, and at his prime, 
In this, our boisterous modern time, 
He would surely be, as he could not then, 
A stalwart leader of mounted men, — 
A ranger, shouting his battle-cry, 
Who knew how to fight and dared to die ; 
And the fame which a county's limit spanned 
Might have grown a legend throughout the land. 

4- 
He would have scoured the Valley through, 
Doing as now our bravest do ; 
Would have tried rough-riding on the border, 
Punishing raider and marauder ; 
With bearded Ashby crossing swords 
As he took the Shenandoah fords ; 
Giving bold Stuart a bloody chase 
Ere he reached again his trys ting-place. 
Horse and horseman of the foe 
The blast of his bugle-charge should know, 
And his men should water their steeds, at will, 
From the banks of Southern river and rill. 

5- 
How many are there of us, in this 
Discordant social wilderness, 
Whose thriftiest scions the power gain, 
Through meet conditions of sun and rain, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



93 



To yield, on the fairest blossoming shoot, 

A mellow harvest of perfect fruit ? 

Fashioned after so rare a type, 

How should his life grow full and ripe, 

There, in the passionless haunts of Peace, 

Through trade, and tillage, and wealth's increase ? 



But at his manor-house he dwelt, 
And royally bore the name Van Ghelt ; 
Nor found a larger part to play 
Than such as a county magnate may : 
Ruling the hustings as he would, 
Lord of the rustic neighborhood ; 
With potent wishes and quiet words 
Holding an undisputed sway. 
The broadest meadows, the fattest herds, 
The fleetest roadsters, the warmest cheer, — 
These were old Hendrick's many a year. 
Daughters unto his hearthstone came, 
And a son — to keep the ancient name. 

7- 

Often, perchance, the old man's eye 

From a seaward casement would espy, 

Scanning the harborage in the bay, 

A ship which idly at anchor lay ; 

Watching her as she rose and fell, 

Up and down, with the evening swell, 

Her cordage slackened, her sails unbent, 

And all her proud life somnolent. 

And perchance he thought — " My life, it seems, 

Like her, unfreighted with aught but dreams ; 



94 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Yet I feel within me a strength to dare 

Some outward voyage, I know not where ! " 

But the forceful impulse wore away 

In the common life of every day, 

And for Hendrick Van Ghelt no timely hour 

Ruffled the calm of that hidden power ; 

Yet in the prelude of my song 

His storied presence may well belong, 

As a Lombardy poplar, lithe and hoar, 

Stands at a Monmouth farmer's door, 

Set like a spire against the sky, 

Marking the hours, while lover and maid 

Linger long in its stately shade, 

And round its summit the swallows fly. 



II, 



NATURE a devious by-way finds : solve me her 
secret whim, 
That the seed of a gnarled oak should sprout to a sap- 
ling straight and prim ; 
That a russet should grow on the pippin stock, on the 

garden-rose a brier ; 
That a stalwart race, in old Hendrick's son, should 
smother its wonted fire. 

Hermann, fond of his book, and shirking the brawny 

out-door sports ; 
Sent to college, and choosing for life the law with her 

mouldy courts ; 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 95 

Proud, and of tender honor, as well became his father's 

blood, 
But with cold and courtly self-restraint weighing the ill 

and good ; 

Wed to a lady whose delicate veins that molten azure 
held, 

Ichor of equal birth, wherewith our gentry their coup- 
lings weld ; 

Viewing his father's careless modes with half a tolerant 
eye, 

As one who honors, regretting not, old fashions pass- 
ing by. 

After a while the moment came when, unto the son 

and heir, 
A son and heir was given in turn, — a moment of joy 

and prayer ; 
For the angel who guards the portals twain oped, in 

the self-same breath, 
To the child the pearly gate of life, to the mother the 

gate of death. 

Father, and son, and an infant plucking the daisies 
over a grave : 

The swell of a boundless surge keeps on, wave follow- 
ing after wave ; 

Ever the tide of life sets toward the low invisible shore : 

Whence had the current its distant source ? when 
shall it flow no more ? 

2. 
Nature's serene renewals, that make the scion by one 
remove 



q6 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Bear the ancestral blossom and thrive as the forest 

wilding throve ! 
Roseate stream of life, which hides the course its ducts 

pursue, 
To rise, like that Sicilian fount, in far-off springs anew ! 



For the grandsire's vigor, rude and rare, asleep in the 

son had lain, 
To waken in Hugh, the grandson's frame, with the 

ancient force again ; 
And ere the boy, said the Monmouth wives, had grown 

to his seventh year, 
Well could you tell whose mantling blood swelled in 

his temples clear. 

Tall, and bent in the meeting brows ; swarthy of hair 
and face ; 

Shoulders parting square, but set with the future hunts- 
man's grace ; 

Eyes alive with a fire which yet the old man's visage 
wore 

At times, like the flash of a thunder-cloud when the 
storm is almost o'er. 

3- 

Toward the mettled stripling, then, the heart of the old 

man yearned ; 
And thus — while Hermann Van Ghelt once more, 

with a restless hunger, turned 
From the grave of her who died so young, to his books 

and lawyer's gown, 
And the ceaseless clangor of mind with mind in the 

close and wrangling town — 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. gy 

They two, the boy and the grandsire, lived at the manor- 
house, and grew, 

The one to all manly arts apace, the other a youth 
anew — 

Pleased with the boy's free spirit, and teaching him, 
step by step, to wield 

The mastery over living things, and the craft of flood 
and field. 

Apt, indeed, was the scholar ; and born with a subtle 

art to gain 
The love of all dumb creatures at will ; now lifting 

himself, by the mane, 
Over the neck of the three-year colt, for a random 

bareback ride, 
Now chasing the waves on the rifted beach at the turn 

of the evening tide. 

Proud, in sooth, was the master : the youngster, he oft 

and roundly swore, 
Was fit for the life a gentleman led in the lusty days of 

yore ! 
And he took the boy wherever he drove, — to a county 

fair or race ; 
Gave him the reins and watched him guide the span at 

a spanking pace ; 

Taught him the sportsman's keen delight : to swallow 

the air of morn, 
And start the whistling quail that hides and feeds in 

the dewy corn ; 
Or in clear November underwoods to bag the squirrels, 

and flush 
The brown-winged, mottled partridge a-whir from her 

nest in the tangled brush ; 

5 g 



gS ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Taught him the golden harvest laws, and the signs of 
sun and shower, 

And the thousand beautiful secret ways of graft and 
fruit and flower ; 

Set him straight in his saddle, and cheered him gallop- 
ing over the sand ; 

Sailed with him to the fishing-shoals and placed the 
helm in his hand. 

Often the yacht, with all sail spread, was steered by 

the fearless twain 
Around the beacon of Sandy Hook, and out in the open 

main; 
Till the great sea-surges rolling in, as south-by-east 

they wore, 
Lifted the bows of the dancing craft, and the buoyant 

hearts she bore. 

But in dreamy hours, which young men know, Hugh 

loved with the tide to float 
Far up the deep, dark-channeled creeks, alone in his 

two-oared boat ; 
While a fiery woven tapestry o'erhung the waters low, 
The warp of the frosted chestnut, the woof with maple 

and birch aglow ; 

Picking the grapes which dangled down ; or watching 

the autumn skies, 
The osprey's slow imperial swoop, the scrawny heron's 

rise ; 
Nursing a longing for larger life than circled a rural 

home, 
An instinct of leadership within, and of action yet to 

come. 




'Often the yacht, with all sail spread." Page 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



99 



4- 
Curtain of shifting seasons dropt on moor and meadow 

and hall, 
Open your random vistas of changes that come with 

time to all ! 
Hugh grown up to manhood ; foremost, searching the 

county through, 
Of the Monmouth youth, in birth and grace, and the 

strength to will and do. 

The father, past the prime of life, and his temples 
flecked with toil, 

A bookman still, and leaving to Hugh the care of stock 
and soil. 

Hendrick Van Ghelt, a bowed old man in a fireside- 
corner chair, 

Counting the porcelain Scripture tiles which frame the 
chimney there, — 

The shade of the stalwart gentleman the people used 

to know, 
Forgetful of half the present scenes, but mindful of 

long-ago ; 
Aroused, mayhap, by growing murmurs of Southern 

feud, that came 
And woke anew in his fading eyes a spark of their 

ancient flame. 

5- 
Gazing on such a group as this, folds of the curtain 

drop, 
Hiding the grandsire's form ; and the wheels of the 

sliding picture stop. 

L.ofC. 



IOO ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Gone, that stout old Hendrick, at last ! and from miles 

around they came, — 
Farmer, and squire, and whispering youths, recalling 

his manhood's fame. 

Dead : and the Van Ghelt manor closed, and the home- 
stead acres leased ; 

For their owner had moved more near the town, where 
his daily tasks increased, 

Choosing a home on the blue Passaic, whence the 
Newark spires and lights 

Were seen, and over the salt sea-marsh the shadows 
of Bergen Heights. 

Back and forth from his city work, the lawyer, day by 

day, 
With the press of eager and toiling men, followed his 

wonted way ; 
And Hugh, — he dallied with life at home, tending the 

garden and grounds ; 
But the mansion longed for a woman's voice to soften 

its lonely sounds. 

" Hugh," said Hermann Van Ghelt, at length, "choose 

for yourself a wife, 
Comely, and good, and of birth to match the mother 

who gave you life. 
No words of woman have charmed my ear since last I 

heard her voice ; 
And of fairest and proudest maids her son should make 

a worthy choice." 

But now the young man's wandering heart from the 
great world turned away, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. IOI 

To long for the healthful Monmouth meads, the shores 

of the breezy bay ; 
And often the scenes and mates he knew in boyhood 

he sought again, 
And roamed through the well-known woods, and lay in 

the grass where he once had lain. 



III. 

LADIES, in silks and laces, 
Lunching with lips that gleam, 
Know you aught of the places 
Yielding such fruit and cream ? 

South from your harbor-islands 
Glisten the Monmouth hills ; 

There are the ocean highlands, 
Lowland meadows and rills, 

Berries in field and garden, 
Trees with their fruitage low, 

Maidens (asking your pardon) 
Handsome as cities show. 

Know you that, night and morning, 

A beautiful water-fay, 
Covered with strange adorning, 

Crosses your rippling bay ? 

Her sides are white and sparkling ; 

She whistles to the shore ; 
Behind, her hair is darkling, 

And the waters part before. 



102 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Lightly the waves she measures 
Up to the wharves of the town ; 

There, unlading her treasures, 
Lovingly puts them down. 

Come with me, ladies ; cluster 
Here on the western pier ; 

Look at her jewels' lustre, 
Changed with the changing year ! 

First of the months to woo her, 
June his strawberries flings 

Over her garniture, 
Bringing her exquisite things ; 

Rifling his richest casket ; 

Handing her, everywhere, 
Garnets in crate and basket ; 

Knowing she soon will wear 

Blackberry jet and lava, 

Raspberries ruby-red, 
Trinkets that August gave her, 

Over her toilet spread. 

After such gifts have faded, 
Then the peaches are seen, — 

Coral and ivory braided, 
Fit for an Indian queen. 

And September will send her, 
Proud of his wealth, and bold, 

Melons glowing in splendor, 
Emeralds set with gold. 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. IC >3 

So she glides to the Narrows, 

Where the forts are astir : 
Her speed is a shining arrow's ! 

Guns are silent for her. 

So she glides to the ringing 

Bells of the belfried town, 
Kissing the wharves, and flinging 

All of her jewels down. 

Whence she gathers her riches, 

Ladies, now would you see ? 
Leaving your city niches, 

Wander awhile with me. 



IV. 



THE strawberry- vines lie in the sun, 
Their myriad tendrils twined in one ; 
Spread like a carpet of richest dyes, 
The strawberry-field in sunshine lies. 
Each timorous berry, blushing red, 
Has folded the leaves above her head, 
The dark, green curtains gemmed with dew ; 
But each blushful berry, peering through, 
Shows like a flock of the underthread, — 
The crimson woof of a downy cloth 
Where the elves may kneel and plight their troth 

2. 
Run through the rustling vines, to show 
Each picker an even space to go, 



[04 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Leaders of twinkling cord divide 
The field in lanes from side to side ; 
And here and there with patient care, 
Lifting the leafage everywhere, 
Rural maidens and mothers dot 
The velvet of the strawberry-plot : 
Fair and freckled, old and young, 
With baskets at their girdles hung, 
Searching the plants with no rude haste, 
Lest berries should hang unpicked, and waste 
Of the pulpy, odorous, hidden quest, 
First gift of the fruity months, and best. 

3- 

Crates of the laden baskets cool 
Under the trees at the meadow's edge, 
Covered with grass and dripping sedge, 
And lily-leaves from the shaded pool ; 
Filled, and ready to be borne 
To market before the morrow morn. 
Beside them, gazing at the skies, 
Hour after hour a young man lies. 
From the hillside, under the trees, 
He looks across the field, and sees 
The waves that ever beyond it climb, 
Whitening the rye-slope's early prime ; 
At times he listens, listlessly, 
To the tree-toad singing in the tree, 
Or sees the catbird peck his fill 
With feathers adroop and roguish bill. 
But often, with a pleased unrest, 
He lifts his glances to the west, 
Watching the kirtles, red and blue, 
Which cross the meadow in his view ; 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

And he hears, anon, the busy throng 
Sing the Strawberry-Pickers' Song : 



4- 
" Rifle the sweets our meadows bear, 

Ere the day has reached its nooning ; 
While the skies are fair, and the morning air 

Awakens the thrush's tuning. 

" Softly the rivulefs ripples flow j 
Dark is the grove that lovers know; 
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow, 
The reddest and ripest berries grow. 

" Bend to the crimson fruit, whose stain 

Is glowing on lips and fingers ; 
The sun has lain in the leafy plain, 

And the dust of his pinions lingers. 

" Softly the rivulefs ripples flow j 
Dark is the grove that lovers know ; 
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow, 
The reddest and ripest berries grow. 

" Gather the cones which lie concealed, 

With their vines your foreheads wreathing ; 

The strawberry-field its sweets shall yield 
While the western winds are breathing. 

" Softly the rivulefs ripples flow; 
Dark is the grove that lovers know j 
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow, 
The reddest and ripest berries grow!'' 
5* 



105 



io 6 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

5- 
From the far hillside comes again 
An echo of the pickers' strain. 
Sweetly the group their cadence keep ; 
Swiftly their hands the trailers sweep ; 
The vines are stripped and the song is sung, 
A joyous labor for old and young ; 
For the blithe children, gleaning behind 
The women, marvellous treasures find. 

6. 
From the workers a maiden parts : 
The baskets at her waistband shine 
With berries that look like bleeding hearts 
Of a hundred lovers at her shrine ; 
No Eastern girl were girdled so well 
With silken belt and silver bell. 
Her slender form is tall and strong ; 
Her voice is the sweetest in the song ; 
Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown, 
Loose from its bonnet ripples down. 
Toward the crates, that lie in the shade 
Of the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade, 
She moves from her mates, through happy rows 
Of the children loving her as she goes. 
Alice, our Alice ! one and all, 
Striving to stay her footsteps, call 
(For children with skilful choice dispense 
The largesse of their innocence ) ; 
But on, with a sister's smile, she moves 
Into the darkness of the groves, 
And deftly, daintily, one by one, 
Shelters her baskets from the sun, 
Under the network, fresh and cool, 
Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool. 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



107 



7- 
Turning her violet eyes, their rays 
Glistened full in the young man's gaze ; 
And each at each, for a moment's space, 
Looked with a diffident surprise. 
" Heaven ! " thought Hugh, " what artless grace 
That laborer's daughter glorifies ! 
I never saw a fairer face, 
I never heard a sweeter voice ; 
And oh ! were she my father's choice, 
My father's choice and mine were one 
In the strawberry-field and morning sun." 



V. 



LOVE, from that summer morn 
Melting the souls of these two ; 
Love, which some of you know 
Who read this poem to-day — 
Is it the same desire, 
The strong, ineffable joy, 
Which Jacob and Rachel felt, 
When he served her father long years, 
And the years were swift as days — 
So great was the love he bore ? 
Race, advancing with time, 
Growing in thought and deed, 
Mastering land and sea, 
Say, does the heart advance, 
Are its passions more pure and strong ? 
They, like Nature, remain, 
No more and no less than of yore. 
Whoso conquers the earth, 



I0 8 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Winning its riches and fame. 
Comes to the evening at last, 
The sunset of threescore years, 
Confessing that Love was real, 
All the rest was a dream ! 
The sum of his gains is dross ; 
The song in his praise is mute ; 
The wreath of his laurels fades : 
But the kiss of his early love 
Still burns on his trembling lip, 
The spirit of one he loved 
Hallows his dreams at night. 
A little while, and the scenes 
Of the play of Life are closed ; 
Come, let us rest an hour, 
And by the pleasant streams, 
Under the fresh, green trees, 
Let us walk hand in hand, 
And think of the days that were. 



VI. 



i. 

ON river and height and salty moors the haze of 
autumn fell, 
And the cloud of a troubled joy enwrapt the face of 

Hugh as well, — 
The spell of a secret haunt that far from home his foot- 
steps drew ; 
A love which over the brow of youth the mask of 
manhood threw. 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. T09 

Birds of the air to the father, at length, the common 
rumor brought : 

"Your son," they sang, "in the cunning toils of a rus- 
tic lass is caught ! " 

" A fit betrothal," the lawyer said, " must make these 
follies cease ; 

Which shall it be ?— the banker's ward ? — Edith, the 
judge's niece ? " 

" Father, I pray " — said Hugh. " O yes ! " out-leapt 
the other's mood, 

" I hear of your wanton loiterings ; they ill become 
your blood ! 

If you hold our name at such light worth, forbear to 
darken the life 

Of this Alice Dale " — " No, Alice Van Ghelt ! fa- 
ther, she is my wife." 

2. 

Worldlings, who say the eagle should mate with eagle, 

after his kind, 
Nor have learned from what far and diverse cliffs the 

twain each other find, 
Yours is the old, old story, of age forgetting its wiser 

youth ; 
Of eyes which are keen for others' good and blind to 

an inward truth. 

But the pride which closed the father's doors swelled 

in the young man's veins, 
And he led his bride, in the sight of all, through the 

pleasant Monmouth lanes, 
To the little farm his grandsire gave, years since, for a 

birthday gift : 



IIO ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Unto such havens unforeseen the barks of our fortune 
drift ! 

There, for a happy pastoral year, he tilled the teeming 
field, 

Scattered the marl above his land, and gathered the 
orchard's yield ; 

And Alice, in fair and simple guise, kissed him at even- 
fall ; 

And her face was to him an angel's face, and love was 
all in all. 

— What is this light in the southern sky, painting a 
red alarm ? 

What is this trumpet call, which sounds through peace- 
ful village and farm, — 

Jarring the sweet idyllic rest, stilling the children's 
throng, 

Hushing the cricket on the hearth, and the lovers' 
evening song ? 

VII. 



W< 



AR ! war ! war ! 
Manning of forts on land and ships for sea ; 
Innumerous lips that speak the righteous wrath 
Of days which have been and again may be ; 
Flashing of tender eyes disdaining tears ; 
A pause of men with indrawn breath, 
Knowing it awful for the people's will 
Thus, thus to end the mellow years 
Of harvest, growth, prosperity, 
And bring the years of famine, fire, and death, 
Though fear and a nation's shame are more awful still. 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. m 

2. 
War ! war ! war ! 
A thundercloud in the South in the early Spring, — 
The launch of a thunderbolt ; and then, 
With one red flare, the lightning stretched its wing, 
And a rolling echo roused a million men ! 
Then the ploughman left his field ; 
The smith, at his clanging forge, 
Forged him a sword to wield. 
From meadow, and mountain-gorge, 
And the Western plains, they came, 
Fronting the storm and flame. 
War ! war ! war ! 
Heaven aid the right ! 
God nerve the hero's arm in the fearful fight ! 
God send the women sleep, in the long, long night, 
When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall 
heave no more ! 

VIII. 



SPAKE each mother to her son, 
Ere an ancient field was won : 
" Spartan, who me your mother call, 
Our country is mother of us all ; 
In her you breathe, and move, and are. 
In peace, for her to live — in war, 
For her to die — is, gloriously, 
A patriot to live and die ! " 

2. 
The times are now as grand as then 
With dauntless women, earnest men ; 



II2 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

For thus the mothers whom we know 
Bade their sons to battle go ; 
And, with a smile, the loyal North 
Sent her million freemen forth. 

3- 

" What men should stronger-hearted be 
Than we, who dwell by the open sea, 
Tilling the lands our fathers won 
In battle on the Monmouth Plains ? 
Ah ! a memory remains, 
Telling us what they have done, 
Teaching us what we should do. 
Let us send our rightful share, — 
Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare, 
A hundred riders fleet and true." 

4- 

A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh : 

" Were he still here," their captain thought, 

"The brave old man who trained my youth, 

What a leader he would make 

Where the battle's topmost billows break ! 

The crimes which brought our land to ruth, 

How in his soul they would have wrought ! 

God help me, no deed of mine shall shame 

The honor of my grandsire's name ; 

And my father shall see how pure and good 

Runs in these veins the olden blood." 

5- 
Shore and inland their men have sent : 
Away, to the mounted regiment, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

The silver-hazed Potomac heights, 
The circling raids, the hundred fights, 
The booth, the bivouac, the tent. 
Away, from the happy Monmouth farms, 
To noontide marches, night alarms, 
Death in the shadowy oaken glades,. 
Emptied saddles, broken blades, — 
All the turmoil that soldiers know 
Who gallop to meet a mortal foe, 
Some to conquer, some to fall : 
War hath its chances for one and all. 

6. 
Heroes, who render up their lives 
On the country's fiery altar-stone — 
They do not offer themselves alone. 
What shall become of the soldiers' wives ? 
They stay behind in the lonely cots, 
Weeding the humble garden-plots ; 
Some to speed the needle and thread, 
For the soldiers' children must be fed ; 
All to sigh, through the toilsome day, 
And at night teach lisping lips to pray 
For the fathers marching far away. 



IX. 



I. 

CLOUD and flame on the dark frontier, 
Veiling the hosts embattled there : 
Peace, and a boding stillness, here, 
Where the wives at home repeat their prayer. 

H 



113 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



The weary August days are long ; 
The locusts sing a plaintive song, 
The cattle miss their master's call 
When they see the sunset shadows fall. 
The youthful mistress, at even-tide, 
Stands by the cedarn wicket's side, 
With both hands pushing from the front 
Her hair, as those who listen are wont ; 
Gazing toward the unknown South, 
While silent whispers part her mouth : 

3- 
" O, if a woman could only find 
Other work than to wait behind, 
Through midnight dew and noonday drouth, — 
To wait behind, and fear, and pray ! 
O, if a soldier's wife could say, — 
' Where thou goest, I will go ; 
Kiss thee ere thou meet'st the foe ; 
Where thou lodgest, worst or best, 
Share and soothe thy broken rest ! ' 
— Alas, to stifle her pain, and wait, 
This was ever a woman's fate ! 
But the lonely hours at least may be 
Passed a little nearer thee, 
And the city thou guardest with thy life 
Thou 'It guaid more fondly for holding thy wife." 

4- 

Ah, tender heart of woman leal, 
Supple as wax and strong as steel ! 
Thousands as faithful and as lone, 
Following each some dearest one, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



US 



Found in those early months a home 

Under the brightness of that dome 

Whose argent arches for aye enfold 

The hopes of a people in their hold, — 

Irradiate, in the sight of all 

Who guard the Capital's outer wall. 

Lastly came one, amid the rest, 

Whose form a sunburnt soldier prest, 

As lovers embrace in respite lent 

From unfulfilled imprisonment. 

And Alice found a new content : 

Dearer for perils that had been 

Were short-lived meetings, far between ; 

Better, for dangers yet to be, 

The moments she still his face could see. 

These, for the pure and loving wife, 

Were the silver bars that marked her life, 

That numbered the days melodiously ; 

While, through all noble daring, Hugh 

From a Captain to a Colonel grew, 

And his praises sweetened every tongue 

That reached her ear, — for old and young 

Gave him the gallant leader's due. 



X. 



T7 LIGHT of a meteor through the sky, 

J- Scattering firebrands, arrows, and death, ■ 

A baleful year, that hurtled by 

While ancient kingdoms held their breath. 



H6 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



The Capital grew aghast with sights 
Flashed from the lurid river-heights, 
Full of the fearful things sent down, 
By demons haunting the middle air, 
Into the hot, beleaguered town, — 
All woful sights and sounds, which seem 
The fantasy of a sickly dream : 
Crowded wickedness everywhere ; 
Everywhere a stifled sense 
Of the noonday-striding pestilence ; 
Every church, from wall to wall, 
A closely-mattressed hospital ; 
And ah ! our bleeding heroes, brought 
From smouldering fields so vainly fought, 
Filling each place where a man could lie 
To gasp a dying wish — and die ; 
While the sombre sky, relentlessly, 
Covered the town with a funeral-pall, 
A death-damp, trickling funeral-pall. 

3- 

Always the dust and mire ; the sound 
Of the rumbling wagon's ceaseless round, 
The cannon jarring the trampled ground. 
The sad, unvarying picture wrought 
Upon the pitying woman's heart 
Of Alice, the Colonel's wife, and taught 
Her spirit to choose the better part, — 
The labor of loving angels, sent 
To men in their sore encompassment. 
Daily her gentle steps were bent 
Through the thin pathways which divide 
The patient sufferers, side from side, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



117 



In dolorous wards, where Death and Life 

Wage their silent, endless strife ; 

And she gave to all her soothing words, 

Sweet as the songs of homestead birds. 

Sometimes that utterance musical 

On the soldier's failing sense would fall 

Seeming, almost, a prelude given 

Of whispers that calm the air of Heaven ; 

While her white hand, moistening his poor lips 

With the draught which slakeless fever sips, 

Pointed him to that fount above, — 

River of water of life and love, — 

Stream without price, of whose purity 

Whoever thirsteth may freely buy. 

4- 

How many — whom in their mortal pain 

She tended — 't was given her to gain, 

Through Him who died upon the rood, 

For that divine beatitude, 

Who of us all can ever know 

Till the golden books their records show ? 

But she saw their dying faces light, 

And felt a rapture in the sight. 

And many a sufferer's earthly life 

Thanked for new strength the Colonel's wife ; 

Many a soldier turned his head, 

Watching her pass his narrow bed, 

Or, haply, his feeble frame would raise, 

As the dim lamp her form revealed ; 

And, like the children in the field, 

(For soldiers like little ones become, — 

As simple in heart, as frolicsome,) 

One and another breathed her name, 

Blessing her as she went and came. 



H8 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

5- 

So, through all actions pure and good, 
Unknowing evil, shame, or fear, 
She grew to perfect ladyhood, — 
Unwittingly the mate and peer 
Of the proudest of her husband's blood. 



XI. 



LIKE an affluent, royal town, the summer camps 
Of a hundred thousand men are stretched away. 
At night, like multitudinous city lamps, 
Their numberless watch-fires beacon, clear and still, 
And a glory beams from the zenith lit 
With lurid vapors that over its star-lights flit ; 
But wreaths of opaline cloud o'erhang, by day, 
The crystal-pointed tents, from hill to hill, 
From vale to vale — until 

The heavens on endless peaks their curtain lay. 
A magical city ! spread to-night 
On hills which slope within our sight : 
To-morrow, as at the waving of a wand, 
Tents, guidons, bannerols are moved afar, — 
Rising elsewhere, as rises a morning-star, 
Or the dream of Aladdin's palace in fairy-land. 



Camp after camp, like marble square on square ; 
Street following street, with many a park between ; 
Bright bayonet-sparkles in the tremulous air ; 
Far-fading, purple smoke above their sheen ; 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. j ig 

Green central fields with flags like flowers abloom ; 
And, all about, close-ordered, populous life : 
But here no festering trade, no civic strife, 
Only the blue-clad soldiers everywhere, 
Waiting to-morrow's victory or doom, — 
Men of the hour, to whom these pictures seem, 
Like school-boy thoughts, half real, half a dream, 

3- 
Camps of the cavalry, apart, 
Are pitched with nicest art 
On hilly suburbs where old forests grow.' 
Here, by itself, one glimmers through the pines, ~ 
One whose high-hearted chief we know : 
A thousand men leap when his bugles blow ; 
A thousand horses curvet at his lines, 
Pawing the turf ; among them come and go 
The jacketed troopers, changed by wind and rain, 
Storm, raid, and skirmish, sunshine, midnight dew y 
To bronze'd men who never ride in vain. 

4- 
In the great wall-tent at the head of the square, 
The Colonel hangs his sword, and there 
Huge logs burn high in front at the close of the day- ; 
And the captains gather ere the long tattoo, 
While the banded buglers play ; 
Then come the tales of home and the troopers' song. 
Clear over the distant outposts float the notes, 
And the lone vidette to catch them listens long ; 
And the officer of the guard, upon his round, 
Pauses, to hear the sound 
Of the chiming chorus poured from a score of throats ; 



I2 o ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



CAVALRY SONG. 

Our good steeds snuff the evening air, 

Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
The foeman's fires are twinkling there ; 
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 

Halt! 
Each carbine sends its whizzing ball : 
Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, 
Into the fight ! 

Dash on beneath the smoking dome, 

Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! 
One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home : 
The guidons that we bear are dearer. 

Charge ! 
Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
Heaven help those whose horses fall ! 
Cut left and right ! 

They flee before our fierce attack ! 

They fall, they spread in broken surges ! 
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 
And leave the foeman to his dirges. 

Wheel ! 
The bugles sound the swift recall : 
Cling ! clang ! backward all ! 
Home, and good night ! 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. i2 t 



XII. 



WHEN April rains and the great spring- tide 
Cover the lowlands far and wide, 
And eastern winds blow somewhat harsh 
Over the salt and mildewed marsh, 
Then the grasses take deeper root, 
Sucking, athirst and resolute ; 
And when the waters eddy away, - 
Flowing in trenches to Newark Bay, 
The fibrous blades grow rank and tall, 
And from their tops the reed-birds call. 
Five miles in width the moor is spread ; 
Two broad rivers its borders thread; 
The schooners which up their channels pass 
Seem to be sailing in the grass, 
Save as they rise with the moon-drawn sea, 
Twice in the day, continuously. 

2. 
Gray with an inward struggle grown, 
The brooding lawyer, Hermann Van Ghelt, 
Lived at the mansion-house, alone ; 
Bui a chilling cloud at his bosom felt, 
Like the fog which crept, at morn and night, 
Across the rivers in his sight, 
And rising, left the moorland plain 
Bare and spectral and cold again. 
He saw the one tall hill, which stood 
Huge with its quarry and gloaming wood, 
And the creeping engines, as they hist 
6 



j ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Through the dim reaches of the mist, — 

Serpents, with ominous eyes aglow, 

Thridding the grasses to and fro ; 

And he thought how each dark, receding train 

Carried its freight of joy and pain, 

On toil's adventure and fortune's quest, 

To the troubled city of unrest ; 

And he knew that under the desolate pall 

Of the bleak horizon, skirting all, 

The burdened ocean heaved, and rolled 

Its moaning surges manifold. 

3- 
Often at evening, gazing through 
The eastward windows on such a view, 
Its sense enwrapt him as with a shroud ; 
Often at noon, in the city's crowd, 
He saw, as 't were in a mystic glass, 
Unbidden faces before him pass : 
A soldier, with eyes unawed and mild 
As the eyes of one who was his child ; 
A woman's visage, like that which blest 
A year of his better years the best ; 
And the plea of a voice, remembered well, 
Deep in his secret hearing fell. 
And as week by week its records brought 
Of heroes fallen as they fought, 
There little by little awakened 
In the lawyer's heart a shapeless dread, 
A fear of the tidings which of all 
On ear and spirit heaviest fall, — 
Changeless sentence of mortal fate, 
Freezing the marrow with — Too Late ! 



123 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



XIII. 



THUS, — when ended the morning tramp, 
And the regiment came back to camp, 
And the Colonel, breathing hard with pain, 
Was carried within the lines again, — 
Thus a Color-Sergeant told 
The story of that skirmish bold : 

2. 
" 'T was an hour past midnight, twelve hours ago, — 
We were all asleep, you know, 
Save the officer on his rounds, 
And the guard -relief, — when sounds 
The signal-gun ! once — twice — 
Thrice ! and then, in a trice, 
The long assembly-call rang sharp and clear, 
Till ' Boots and Saddles ' made us scamper like mice. 
No time to waste 

In asking whether a fight was near ; 
Over the horses went their traps in haste ; 
Not ten minutes had past 
Ere we stood in marching gear, 
And the call of the roll was followed by orders fast : 
' Prepare to mount ! ' 

' Mount ! ' — and the company ranks were made ; 
Then in each rank, by fours, we took the count, 
And the head of the column wheeled for the long parade. 

3- 

" There, on the beaten ground, 

The regiment formed from right to left ; 






24 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



Our Colonel, straight in his saddle, looked around, 

Reining the stallion in, that felt the heft 

Of his rider, and stamped his foot, and wanted to dance. 

At last the order came : 

' By twos : forward, march ! ' — and the same 

From each officer in advance ; 

And, as the rear-guard left the spot, 

We broke into the even trot. 

4- 
" ' Trot, march ! ' — two by two, 
In the dust and in the dew, 
Roads and open meadows through. 
Steadily we kept the tune 
Underneath the stars and moon. 
None, except the Colonel, knew 
What our orders were to do ; 
Whether on a forage-raid 
We were tramping, boot and blade, 
Or a close reconnoissance 
Ere the army should advance ; 
One thing certain, we were bound 
Straight for Stuart's camping-ground. 
Plunging into forest-shade, 
Well we knew each glen and glade ! 
Sweet they smelled, the pine and oak, 
And of home my comrade spoke. 
Tramp, tramp, out again, 
Sheer across the ragged plain, 
Where the moonbeams glaze our steel 
And the fresher air we feel. 
Thus a triple league, and more, 
Till behind us spreads the gray, 
Pallid light of breaking day, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. i 2 $ 

And on cloudy hills, before, 
Rebel camp-fires smoke away. 
Hard by yonder clump of pines 
We should touch the rebel lines : 
' Walk, march ! ' and, softly now, 
Gain yon hillock's westward brow. 

5- 
" ' Halt ! ' and ' Right into line ! ' — There on the ridge 
In battle-order we let the horses breathe ; 
The Colonel raised his glass and scanned the bridge, 
The tents on the bank beyond, the stream beneath. 
Just then the sun first broke from the redder east, 
And their pickets saw five hundred of us, at least, 
Stretched like a dark stockade against the sky ; 
We heard their long-roll clamor loud and nigh : 
In half a minute a rumbling battery whirled 
To a mound in front, unlimbering with a will, 
And a twelve-pound solid shot came right along, 
Singing a devilish morning-song, 
And touched my comrade's leg, and the poor boy 

curled 
And dropt to the turf, holding his bridle still. 
Well, we moved out of range, — were wheeling round, 
I think, for the Colonel had taken his look at their 

» ground, 
(Thus he was ordered, it seems, and nothing more : 
Hardly worth coming at midnight for !) 
When, over the bridge, a troop of the enemy's horse 
Dashed out upon our course, 
Giving us hope of a tussle to warm our blood. 
Then we cheered, to a man, that our early call 
Had n't been sounded for nothing, after all ; 
And halting, to wait their movements, the column stood. 



I2 6 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

6. 
"Then into squadrons we saw their ranks enlarge, 
And slow and steady they moved to the charge, 
Shaking the ground as they came in carbine-range. 
' Front into line ! March ! Halt ! Front ! ' 
Our Colonel cried ; and in squadrons, to meet the brunt, 
We too from the walk to the trot our paces change : 
' Gallop, march ! ' — and, hot for the fray, 
Pistols and sabres drawn, we canter away. 

7- 
" Twenty rods over the slippery clover 
We galloped as gayly as lady and lover ; 
Held the reins lightly, our good weapons tightly, 
Five solid squadrons all shining and sightly ; 
Not too fast, half the strength of our brave steeds to 

wasten, 
Not too slow, for the warmth of their fire made us 

hasten, 
As it came with a rattle and opened the battle, 
Tumbling from saddles ten fellows of mettle. 
So the distance grew shorter, their sabres shone broader; 
Then the bugle's wild blare and the Colonel's loud 

order, — 

" Charge ! " and we sprang, while the far echo rang, 
And their bullets, like bees, in our ears fiercely sang. 
Forward we strode to pay what we owed, 
Right at the head of their column we rode ; 
Together we dashed, and the air reeled and flashed ; 
Stirrups, sabres, and scabbards all shattered and crashed 
As we cut in and out, right and left, all about, 
Hand to hand, blow for blow, shot for shot, shout for 
shout, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



127 



Till the earth seemed to boil with the heat of our toil. 

But in less than five minutes we felt them recoil, 

Heard their shrill rally sound, and, like hares from the 
hound, 

Each ran for himself : one and all fled the ground ! 

Then we goaded them up to their guns, where they 
cowered, 

And the breeze cleared the field where the battle-cloud 
lowered. 

Threescore of them lay, to teach them the way 

Van Ghelt and his rangers their compliments pay. 

But a plenty, I swear, of our saddles were bare ; 

Friend and foe, horse and rider, lay sprawled every- 
where : 

'T was hard hitting, you see, Sir, that gained us the 
day ! 



" Yes, they too had their say before they fled, 

And the loss of our Colonel is worse than all the rest. 

One of their captains aimed at him, as he led 

The foremost charge — I shot the rascal dead, 

But the Colonel fell, with a bullet through his breast. 

We lifted him from the mire, when the field was won, 

And their captured colors shaded him from the sun 

In the farmer's wagon we took for his homeward ride ; 

But he never said a word, nor opened his eyes, 

Till we reached the camp. In yon hospital tent he lies, 

And his poor young wife will come to watch by his 

side. 
The surgeon has n't found the bullet, as yet, 
But he says it 's a mortal wound. Where will you get 
Another such man to lead us, if he dies ? " 



I2 8 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



XIV. 



OPRUNG was the bow at last ; 

^ And the barbed and pointed dart, 

Keen with stings of the past, 

Barbed with a vain remorse, 

Clove for itself a course 

Straight to the father's heart ; 

And a lonely wanderer stood, 

Mazed in a mist of thought, 

On the edge of a field of blood. 

— For a battle had been fought, 

And the cavalry skirmish was but a wild prelude 

To the broader carnage that heaped a field in vain : 

A terrible battle had been fought, 

Till its changeful current brought 

Tumultuous, angry surges roaring back 

To the lines where our army had lain. 

The lawyer, driven hard by an inward pain, 

Was crossing, in search of a dying son, the track 

Where the deluge rose and fell, and its stranded wrack 

Had sown the loathing earth with human slain. 

2. 
Friends and foes, — who could discover which, 
As they marked the zigzag, outer ditch, 
Or lay so cold and still in the bush, 
Fallen and trampled down in the last wild rush ? 
Then the shattered forest-trees ; the clearing there 
Where a battery stood ; dead horses, pawing the air 
With horrible upright hoofs ; a mangled mass 
Of wounded and stifled men in the low morass ; 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. I2 g 

And the long trench dug in haste for a burial-pit, 
Whose yawning length and breadth all comers fit. 

3- 

And over the dreadful precinct, like the lights 
That flit through graveyard walks in dismal nights, 
Men with lanterns were groping among the dead, 
Holding the flame to every hueless face, 
And bearing those whose life had not wholly fled 
On stretchers, that looked like biers, from the ghastly 
place. 

4- 
The air above seemed heavy with errant souls, 
Dense with ghosts from those gory forms arisen, — 
Each rudely driven from its prison, 
'Mid the harsh jar of rattling musket-rolls, 
And quivering throes, and unexpected force ; 
In helpless waves adrift confusedly, 
Freighting the sombre haze without resource. 
Through all there trickled, from the pitying sky, 
An infinite mist of tears upon the ground, 
Muffling the groans of anguish with its sound. 

5- 
On the borders of such a land, on the bounds of Death, 
The stranger, shuddering, moved as one who saith : 
" God ! what a doleful clime, a drear domain ! " 
And onward, struggling with his pain, 
Traversed the endless camp-fires, spark by spark, 
Past sentinels that challenged from the dark, 
Guided through camp and camp to one long tent 
Whose ridge a flying bolt from the field had rent, 
Letting the midnight mist, the battle din, 
Fall on the hundred forms that writhed within. 
6* i 



130 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



6. 
Beyond the gaunt Zouave at the nearest cot, 
And the bugler shot in the arm, who lay beside 
(Looking down at the wounded spot 
Even then, for all the pain, with boyish pride), 
And a score of men, with blankets opened wide, 
Showing the gory bandages which bound 
The paths of many a deadly wound, 
— Over all these the stranger's glances sped 
To one low stretcher, at whose head 
A woman, bowed and brooding, sate, 
As sit the angels of our fate, 
Who, motionless, our births and deaths await. 
He whom she tended moaned and tost, 
Restless, as some laborious vessel, lost 
Close to the port for which we saw it sail, 
Groans in the long perpetual gale ; 
But she, that watched the storm, forbore to weep. 
Sometimes the stranger saw her move 
To others, who also with their anguish strove ; 
But ever again her constant footsteps turned 
To one who made sad mutterings in his sleep ; 
Ever she listened to his breathings deep, 
Or trimmed the midnight lamp that feebly burned. 



XV. 

LEANING her face on her hand 
She sat by the side of Hugh, 
Silently watching him breathe, 
As a lily curves its grace 
Over the broken form 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Of the twin which stood by its side. 

A glory upon her head 

Trailed from the light above, 

Gilding her tranquil hair. 

There, as she sat in a trance, 

Her soul flowed through the past, 

As a river, day and night, 

Passes through changeful shores, — 

Sees, on the twofold bank, 

Meadow and mossy grange, 

Castles on hoary crags, 

Forests, and fortressed towns, 

And shrinks from the widening bay, 

And the darkness which overhangs 

The unknown, limitless sea. 

Was it a troubled dream, 

All that the stream of her life 

Had mirrored along its course ? 

All — from that summer morn 

When she seemed to meet in the field 

One whom she vowed to love, 

And with whom she wandered thence, 

Leaving the home of her youth ? 

Were they visions indeed, — 

The pillars of smoke and flame, 

The sound of a hundred fights, 

The grandeur, and ah ! the gloom, 

The shadows which circled her now, 

And the wraith of the one she loved 

Gliding away from her grasp, 

Vanishing swiftly and sure ? 

Yes, it was all a dream ; 

And the strange, sad man, who moved 

To the other side of the couch, 



131 



132 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Bending over it long, 
Pressing his hand on his heart, 
And gazing, anon, in her eyes, — 
He, with his scanty hair, 
And pallid, repentant face, 
He, too, was a voiceless dream, 
A vision like all the rest ; 
He with the rest would fade 
When the day should dawn again, 
When the spectral mist of night, 
Fused with the golden morn, 
Should melt in the eastern sky. 



XVI. 



" Q TE ADY ! forward the squadron ! " cries 

^—J The dying soldier, and strives amain 
To rise from the pillow and his pain. 
Wild and wandering are his eyes, 
Painting once more, on the empty air, 
The wrathful battle's wavering glare. 
" Hugh ! " said Alice, and checked her fear 
" Speak to me, Hugh ; your father is here." 
" Father ! what of my father ? he 
Is anything but a father to me ; 
What need I of a father, when 
I have the hearts of a thousand men ? " 
" — Alas, Sir, he knows not me nor you ! " 
And with caressing words, the twain — 
The man with all remorsefulness, 
The woman with loving tenderness — 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. Y ^ 

Soothed the soldier to rest anew, 
And, as the madness left his brain, 
Silently watched his sleep again. 



And again the father and the wife, 

Counting the precious sands of life, 

Looked each askance, with those subtle eyes, 

That probe through human mysteries 

And hidden motives fathom well ; 

But the mild regard of Alice fell, 

Meeting the other's contrite glance, 

On his meek and furrowed countenance, 

Scathed, as it seemed, with troubled thought : 

" Surely, good angels have with him wrought, 

She murmured, and halted, even across 

The sorrowful threshold of her loss, 

To pity his thin and changing hair, 

And her heart forgave him, unaware. 

3- 
And he, — who saw how she still represt 
A drear foreboding within her breast, 
And, by her wifehood's nearest right, 
Ever more closely through the night 
Clave unto him whose quickened breath 
Came like a waft from the realm of Death, — 
He felt what a secret, powerful tie 
Bound them in one, mysteriously. 
He studied her features, as she stood 
Lighting the shades of that woful place 
With the presence of her womanhood, 
And thought — as the dying son had thought 
When her beauty first his vision caught — 



: ^4 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

" I never saw a fairer face ; 

I never heard a sweeter voice ! " 

And a sad remembrance travelled fast 

Through all the labyrinth of the past, 

Till he said, as the scales fell off at last, 

" How could I blame him for his choice ? " 

Then he looked upon the sword, which lay 

At the headboard, under the night-lamp's ray ; 

He saw the coat, the stains, the dust, 

The gilded eagles worn with rust, 

The swarthy forehead and matted hair 

Of the strong, brave hero lying there ; 

And he felt how gently Hugh held command, — 

The life how gallant, the death how grand ; 

And with trembling lips, and the words that choke, 

And the tears which burn the cheek, he spoke : 

" Where is the father who would not joy 

In the manhood of such a noble boy ? 

This life, which had being through my own, 

Was a better life rhan I have known ; 

O that its fairness should be earth, 

Ere I could prize it at its worth ! " 

" Too late ! too late ! " — he made his moan — 

" I find a daughter, and her alone. 

He deemed you worthy to bear his name, 

His spotless honor, his lasting fame : 

I, who have wronged you, bid you live 

To comfort the lonely — and forgive." 

4- 
Dim and silvery from the east 
The infant light of another morn 
Over the stirring camps was borne ; 
But the soldier's pulse had almost ceased, 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

And there crept upon his brow the change — 

Ah, how sudden ! alas, how strange ! 

Yet again his eyelids opened wide, 

And his glances moved to either side, 

This time with a clear intelligence 

Which took all objects in its sense, 

A power to comprehend the whole 

Of the scene that girded his passing soul. 

The father, who saw it, slowly drew 

Nearer to her that wept anew, 

And gathered her tenderly in his hold, — 

As mortals their precious things enfold, 

Grasping them late and sure ; and Hugh 

Gazed on the two a space, and smiled 

With the look he wore when a little child, — 

A smile of pride and peace, that meant 

A free forgiveness, a full content ; 

Then his clouding sight an instant clung 

To the flag whose stars above him hung, 

And his blunted senses seemed to hear 

The long reveille'e sounding near ; 

But the ringing clarion could not vie 

With the richer notes which filled his ear, 

Nor the breaking morn with that brighter sky. 



XVII. 



WEAR no armor, timid heart ; 
Fear no keen misfortune's dart, 
Want, nor scorn, nor secret blow 
Dealt thee by thy mortal foe. 



135 



I3 6 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



Let the Fates their weapons wield, 
For a wondrous woven shield 
Shall be given thee, erelong. 
Mesh of gold were not so strong ; 
Not so soft were silken shred ; 
Not so fine the spider's thread 
Barring the enchanted door 
In that tale of ancient lore, 
Guarding, silently and well, 
All within the mystic cell. 
Such a shield, where'er thou art, 
Shall be thine, O wounded heart ! 
From the ills that compass thee 
Thou behind it shalt be free ; 
Envy, slander, malice, all 
Shall withdraw them from thy — Pall. 

3- 

Build no house with patient care, 
Fair to view, and strong as fair ; 
Walled with noble deeds' renown ; 
Shining over field and town, 
Seen from land and sea afar, 
Proud in peace, secure in war. 
For the moments never sleep, 
Building thee a castle-keep, — 
Proof alike 'gainst heat and cold, 
Earthly sorrows manifold, 
Sickness, 'failure of thine ends, 
And the falling off of friends. 
Treason, want, dishonor, wrong, 
None of these shall harm thee long. 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. i$y 

Every day a beam is made ; 
Hour by hour a stone is laid. 
Back the cruellest shall fall 
From the warder at the wall ; 
Foemen shall not dare to tread 
On the ramparts o'er thy head ; 
Dark, triumphant flags shall wave 
From the fastness of thy — Grave. 



XVIII. 



THERE 's an hour, at the fall of night, when the 
blissful souls 
Of those who were dear in life seem close at hand ; 
There 's a holy midnight hour, when we speak their 

names 
In pauses between our songs on the trellised porch ; 
And we sing the hymns which they loved, and almost 

know 
Their phantoms are somewhere with us, filling the 

gaps, 
The sorrowful chasms left when they passed away ; 
And we seem, in the hush of our yearning voices, to 

hear 
Their warm, familiar breathing somewhere near. 

2. 
At such an hour, — when again the autumn haze 
Silvered the moors, and the new moon peered from the 

west 
Over the blue Passaic, and the mansion shone 



I3 8 ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 

Clear and white on the ridge which skirts the stream, — 
At the twilight hour a man and a woman sat 
On the open porch, in the garb of those who mourn. 
Father and daughter they seemed ; and with thoughtful 

eyes, 
Silent, and full of the past, they watched the skies. 



XIX. 

SILENT they were, not sad; for the sod that covers 
the grave 

Of those we have given to fame smells not of the hate- 
ful mould, 

But of roses and fragrant ferns, while marvellous im- 
mortelles 

Twine in glory above, and their graces give us joy. 

Silent, but oh ! not sad : for the babe on the couch 
within 

Drank at the mother's breast, till the current of life, 
outdrawn, 

Opened inflowing currents of faith and sweet content ; 

And the gray-haired man, repenting in tears the foolish 
past, 

Had seen in the light from those inscrutable infant 
eyes, 

Fresh from the unknown world, the glimpses which, 
long ago, 

Gladdened his golden youth, and had found his soul at 
peace. 



139 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



XX. 



LASTLY the moon went down ; like burnished steel 
The infinite ether wrapt the crispy air. 
Then, arm in arm on the terrace-walk, the pair 
Moved in that still communion where we feel 
No need of audible questions and replies, 
But mutual pulses all our thoughts reveal ; 
And, as they turned to leave the outer night, 
Far in the cloudless North a radiant sight 
Stayed their steps for a while and held their eyes. 



There, through the icy mail of the boreal heaven, 
Two-edged and burning swords by unseen hands 
Were thrust, till a climbing throng its path had riven 
Straight from the Pole, and, over seas and lands, 
Pushed for the zenith, while from East to West 
Flamed many a towering helm and gorgeous crest ; 
And then, a rarer pageant than the rest, 
An angrier light glared from the southern sky, 
As if the austral trumpets made reply, 
And the wrath of a challenged realm had swiftly tost 
On the empyrean the flags of another host, — 
Pennons with or and scarlet blazing high, 
Crimson and orange banners proudly crost ; 
While through the environed space, that lay between 
Their adverse fronts, the ether seemed to tremble, 
Shuddering to view such ruthless foes assemble, 
And one by one the stars withdrew their sheen. 



140 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. 



3- 

The two, enrapt with such a vision, saw 

Its ominous surges, dense, prismatic, vast, 

Heaved from the round horizon ; and in awe, 

Musing awhile, were silent. Till at last 

The younger, fair in widow's garments, spoke : 

" See, father, how, from either pole, 

The deep, innumerous columns roll ; 

As if the angelic tribes their concord broke, 

And the fierce war that scathes our land had spread 

Above, and the very skies with ire were red ! " 



4- 
Even as she spoke, there shone 
High in the topmost zenith a central spark, 
A luminous cloud that glowed against the dark ; 
Its halo, widening toward either zone, 
Took on the semblance of a mystic hand 
Stretched from an unknown height ; and lo ! a band 
Of scintillant jewels twined around the wrist, 
Sapphire and ruby, opal, amethyst, 
Turquoise, and diamond, linked with flashing joints. 
Its wide and puissant reach began to clasp, 
In countless folds, the interclashing points 
Of outshot light, gathering their angry hues — 
North, south, east, west — with noiseless grasp, 
By some divine, resistless law, 
Till everywhere the wondering watchers saw 
A thousand colors blend and interfuse, 
In aureate wave on wave ascending higher, — 
Immeasurable, white, a spotless fire ; 
And, glory circling glory there, behold 
Gleams of the heavenly city walled with gold ! 



ALICE OF MONMOUTH. I4I 

5- 

" Daughter," the man replied, (his face was bright 

With the effulgent reflex of that light,) 

" The time shall come, by merciful Heaven willed, 

When these celestial omens shall be fulfilled, 

Our strife be closed and the nation purged of sin, 

And a pure and holier union shall begin ; 

And a jarring race be drawn, throughout the land, 

Into new brotherhood by some strong hand ; 

And the baneful glow and splendor of war shall fade 

In the whiter light of love, that, from sea to sea, 

Shall soften the rage of hosts in arms arrayed, 

And melt into share and shaft each battle-blade, 

And brighten the hopes of a people great and free. 

But, in the story told of a nation's woes, 

Of the sacrifices made for a century's fault, 

The fames of fallen heroes shall ever shine, 

Serene, and high, and crystalline as those 

Fair stars, which reappear in yonder vault ; 

In the country's heart their written names shall be, 

Like that of a single one in mine and thine. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 







MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ALECTRYON. 

GREAT Ares, whose tempestuous godhood found 
Delight in those thick-tangled solitudes 
Of Hebrus, watered tracts of rugged Thrace, — 
Great Ares, scouring the Odrysian wilds, 
There met Alectryon, a Thracian boy, 
Stalwart beyond his years, and swift of foot 
To hunt from morn till eve the white-toothed boar. 
" What hero," said the war-God, "joined his blood 
With that of Haemian nymph, to make thy form 
So fair, thy soul so daring, and thy thews 
So lusty for the contest on the plains 
Wherein the fleet Odrysae tame their steeds ? " 

From that time forth the twain together chased 
The boar, or made their coursers cleave the breadth 
Of yellow Hebrus, and, through vales beyond, 
Drove the hot leopard foaming to his lair. 
And day by day Alectryon dearer grew 

7 J 



I 4 6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

To the God's restless spirit, till from Thrace 

He bore him, even to Olympos ; there 

Before him set immortal food and wine, 

That fairer youth and lustier strength might serve 

His henchman ; bade him bear his arms, and cleanse 

The crimsoned burnish of his brazen car : 

So dwelt the Thracian youth among the Gods. 

There came a day when Areis left at rest 
His spear, and smoothed his harmful, unhelmed brow, 
Calling Alectryon to his side, and said : 
u The shadow of Olympos longer falls 
Through misty valleys of the lower world ; 
The Earth shall be at peace a summer's night ; 
Men shall have calm, and the unconquered host 
Peopling the walls of Troas, and the tribes 
Of Greece, shall sleep sweet sleep upon their arms ; 
For Aphrodite, queen of light and love, 
Awaits me, blooming in the House of Fire, 
Girt with the cestus, infinite in grace, 
Dearer than battle and the joy of war : 
She, for whose charms I would renounce the sword 
Forever, even godhood, would she wreathe 
My brows with myrtle, dwelling far from Heaven. 
Hephaestos, the lame cuckold, unto whose 
Misshapen squalor Zeus hath given my queen, 
To-night seeks Lemnos, and his sooty vault 
Roofed by the roaring surge ; wherein, betimes, 
He and his Cyclops pound the ringing iron, 
Forging great bolts for Zeus, and welding mail, 
White-hot, in shapes for Heroes and the Gods. 
Do thou, Alectryon, faithful to my trust, 
Hie with me to the mystic House of Fire. 
Therein, with wine and fruitage of her isle, 






ALEC 'TR YON. 147 

Sweet odors, and all rarest sights and sounds, 
My Paphian mistress shall regale us twain. 
But when the feast is over, and thou seest 
Ar£s and Aphrodite pass beyond 
The portals of that chamber whence all winds 
Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth, 
Watch by the entrance, sleepless, while we sleep ; 
And warn us ere the glimpses of the Dawn ; 
Lest Helios, the spy, may peer within 
Our windSws, and to Lemnos speed apace, 
In envy clamoring to the hobbling smith, 
Hephaestos, of the wrong I do his bed." 

Thus Ar£s ; and the Thracian boy, well pleased, 
Swore to be faithful to his trust, and liege 
To her, the perfect queen of light and love. 
So saying, they reached the fiery, brazen gates, 
Encolumned high by Heaven's artisan, 
Hephaestos, rough, begrimed, and halt of foot, — 
Yet unto whom was Aphrodite given 
By Zeus, because from his misshapen hands 
All shapely things found being ; but the gift 
Brought him no joyance, nor made pure his fame, 
Like those devices which he wrought himself, 
Grim, patient, unbeloved. 

There passed they in 
At portals of the high, celestial House, 
And on beyond the starry-golden court, 
Through amorous hidden ways, and winding paths 
Set round with splendors, to the spangled hall 
Of secret audience for noble guests. 
Here Charis labored, so Hephaestos bade, 
Moulding the room's adornments ; here she built 



148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Low couches, framed in ivory, overlain 
With skins of pard and panther, and the fleece 
Of sheep which graze the low Hesperian isles ; 
And in the midst a cedarn table spread, 
Whereon the loves of all the elder Gods 
Were wrought in gold and silver ; and the light 
Of quenchless rubies sparkled over all. 
Thus far came Ares and Alectry6n, 
First leaving shield and falchion at the door, 
That naught of violence should haunt that air* 
Serene, but laughter-loving peace, and joys 
The meed of Gods, once given men to know. 

Then, from her dais in the utmost hall, 
Shone toward them Aphrodite, not by firm, 
Imperial footfalls, but in measureless 
Procession, even as, wafted by her doves, 
She kissed the faces of the yearning waves 
From Cyprus to the high Thessalian mount, 
Claiming her throne in Heaven ; so light she stept, 
Untended by her Graces ; only he, 
Eros, th' eternal child, with welcomings 
Sprang forward to Ares, like a beam of light 
Flashed from a coming brightness, ere it comes ; 
And the ambrosial mother to his glee 
Joined her own joy, coy as she glided near 
Ares, till Ares closed her in his arms 
An instant, with the perfect love of Gods. 
And the wide chamber gleamed with their delight, 
And infinite tinkling laughters rippled through 
Far halls, wherefrom no boding echoes came. 

But when the passion of their meeting fell 
To dalliance, the mighty lovers, sunk 



ALECTRYON. j 4 g 

Within those ivory couches golden-fleeced, 
Made wassail at the wondrous board, and held 
Sweet stolen converse till the middle night. 
And soulless servitors came gliding in, 
Handmaidens, wrought of gold, the marvellous work 
Of lame Hephaestos ; having neither will, 
Nor voice, yet bearing on their golden trays 
Lush fruits and Cyprian wine, and, intermixt, 
Olympian food and nectar, earth with heaven. 
These Er6s and Alectry6n took therefrom, 
And placed before the lovers ; and, meanwhile, 
Melodious breathings from unfingered lutes, 
Warblings from unseen nightingales, and songs 
From lips uncrimsoned, scattered music round. 
So fled the light-shod moments, hour by hour, 
While the grim husband clanged upon his forge 
In lurid caverns of the distant isle, 
Unboding, and unheeded in his home, 
Save with a scornful jest. Till now the crown 
Of Artemis shone at her topmost height : 
Then rose the impassioned lovers, with rapt eyes 
Fixed each on each, and passed beyond the hall, 
Through curtains of that chamber whence all winds 
Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth ; 
At whose dim vestibule Alectryon 
Disposed him, mindful of his master's word ; 
But Eros, heavy-eyed, long since had slept, 
Deep-muffled in the softness of his plumes. 
And all was silence in the House of Fire. 

Only Alectryon, through brazen bars, 
Watched the blue East for Eos, she whose torch 
Should warn him of the coming of the Sun. 
Even thus he kept his vigils ; but, ere half 



i5o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Her silvery downward path the Huntress knew, 

His senses by that rich immortal food 

Grew numbed with languor. Then the shadowy hall's 

Deep columns glimmered, interblent with dreams, — 

Thick forests, running waters, darkling caves 

Of Thrace ; and half in thought he grasped the bow ; 

Hunted once more within his native wilds, 

Cheering the hounds ; until before his eyes 

The drapery of all nearer pictures fell, 

And his limbs drooped. Whereat the imp of Sleep, 

Hypnos, who hid him at the outer gate, 

Slid in with silken-sandalled feet, and laid 

A subtle finger on his lids. And so, 

Crouched at the warder-post, Alectry6n slept. 

Meanwhile the God and Goddess, recking nought 
Of evil, trusting to the faithful boy, 
Sank satiate in the calm of trance'd rest. 
And past the sleeping warder, deep within 
The portals of that chamber whence all winds 
Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth, 
Hypnos kept on, walking, yet half afloat 
In the sweet air ; and fluttering with cool wings 
Above their couch fanned the reposeful pair 
To slumber. Thus, a careless twilight hour, 
Unknowing Eos and her torch, they slept. 

Ill-fated rest ! Awake, ye fleet-winged Loves, 
Your mistress ! Eos, rouse the sleeping God, 
And warn him of the coming of the Day ! 
Alectryon, wake ! In vain : Eos swept by, 
Radiant, a blushing finger on her lips. 
In vain ! Close on her flight, from furthest East, 
The peering Helios drove his lambent car, • 



ALEC TR YON. l5l 

Casting the tell-tale beams on earth and sky, 

Until Olympos laughed within his light, 

And all the House of Fire grew roofed with gold ; 

And through its brazen windows Helios gazed 

Upon the sleeping lovers : thence away 

To Lemnos flashed, across the rearward sea, 

A messenger, from whom the vengeful smith, 

Hephsstos, learned the story of his wrongs ; 

Whence afterward rude scandal spread through Heaven. 

But they, the lovers, startled from sweet sleep 
By garish Day, stood timorous and mute, 
Even as a regal pair, the hart and hind, 
When first the keynote of the clarion horn 
Pierces their covert, and the deep-mouthed hound 
Bays, following on the trail ; then, with small pause 
For amorous partings, sped in diverse ways. 
She, Aphrodite, clothed in pearly cloud, 
Dropt from Olympos to the eastern shore ; 
Thence floated, half in shame, half laughter-pleased, 
Southward across the blue ^Egaean sea, 
That had a thousand little dimpling smiles 
At her discomfort, and a thousand eyes 
To shoot irreverent glances. But her conch 
Passed the Eubcean coasts, and softly on 
By rugged Delos, and the gentler slope 
Of Naxos, to Icarian waves serene ; 
Thence sailed betwixt fair Rhodos, on the left, 
And windy Carpathos, until it touched 
Cyprus ; and soon the conscious Goddess found 
Her bower in the hollow of the isle ; 
And wondering nymphs in their white arms received 
Their white-armed mistress, bathing her fair limbs 
in fragrant dews, twining her lucent hair 



I 52 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

With roses, and with kisses soothing her ; 
Till, glowing in fresh loveliness, she sank 
To stillness, tended in the sacred isle, 
And hid herself awhile from all her peers. 

But angry Ares faced the treacherous Morn, 
Spurning the palace tower ; nor looked behind, 
Disdainful of himself and secret joys 
That stript him to the laughter of the Gods. 
Toward the East he made, and overhung 
The broad Thermaic gulf ; then, shunning well 
The crags of Lemnos, by Mount Athos stayed 
A moment, mute ; thence hurtled sheer away, 
Across the murmuring Northern sea, whose waves 
Are swollen in billows ruffled with the cuffs 
Of endless winds ; so reached the shores of Thrace, 
And spleen pursued him in the tangled wilds. 

Hither at eventide remorseful came. 
Alectryon ; but the indignant God, 
With harsh revilings, changed him to the Cock, 
That evermore, remembering his fault, 
Heralds with warning voice the coming Day. 



THE TEST. 

SEVEN women loved him. When the wrinkled 
pall 
Enwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire 
(Death, pale, triumphant rival, conquering all,) 



THE TEST. ^ 

They came, for that last look, around his pyre. 

One strewed white roses, on whose leaves were 
hung 
Her tears, like dew ; and in discreet attire 

Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next among 

The group, a fair-haired virgin moved serenely, 
Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung, 

Reached the calm dust, and there, composed and 
queenly, 
Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand : 
" That's with the past," she said, " nor may I meanly 

Give way to tears ! " and passed into the land. 

The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning, 
With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand, 

So weak they seemed, — and all her passion owning. 

The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came, 
Half for such homage to the dead atoning 

By smiles on one who fanned a later flame 

In her slight soul, her fickle steps attended. 
The fifth and sixth were sisters ; at the same 

Wild moment both above the image bended, 

And with immortal hatred each on each 
Glared, and therewith her exultation blended, 

To know the dead had 'scaped the other's reach ! 

Meanwhile, through all the words of anguish spoken, 
One lowly form had given no sound of speech, 

7* 



!^ 4 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token ; 

But when they came to bear him to his rest, 
They found her beauty paled, — her heart was broken ; 

And in the Silent Land his shade confest 
That she, of all the seven, loved him best. 



THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 

ONCE more on the fallow hillside, as of old, I lie 
at rest 
For an hour, while the sunshine trembles through the 

walnut-tree to the west, — 
Shakes on the rocks and fragrant ferns, and the berry- 
bushes around ; 
And I watch, as of old, the cattle graze in the lower 
pasture-ground. 

Of the Saxon months of blossom, when the merle and 
mavis sing, 

And a dust of gold falls everywhere from the soft mid- 
summer's wing, 

I only know from my poets, or from pictures that hither 
come, 

Sweet with the smile of the hawthorn-hedge and the 
scent of the harvest-home. 

But July in our own New England — I bask myself i 

its prime, 
As one in the light of a face he loves, and has not s^ 

for a time ! 



THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 



155 



Again the perfect blue of the sky ; the fresh green 

woods ; the call 
Of the crested jay ; the tangled vines that cover the 

frost-thrown wall : 

Sounds and shadows remembered well ! the ground- 
bee's droning hum ; 

The distant musical tree-tops ; the locust beating his 
drum ; 

And the ripened July warmth, that seems akin to a fire 
which stole, 

Long summers since, through the thews of youth, to 
soften and harden my soul. 

Here it was that I loved her — as only a stripling can, 
Who doats on a girl that others know no mate for the 

future man ; 
It was well, perhaps, that at last my pride and honor 

outgrew her art, 
That there came an hour, when from broken chains I 

fled — with a broken heart. 

'T was well : but the fire would still flash up in sharp, 
heat-lightning gleams, 

And ever at night the false, fair face shone into passion- 
ate dreams ; 

The false, fair form, through many a year, was some- 
where close at my side, 

And crept, as by right, to my very arms and the place 
of my patient bride. 

Bride and vision have passed away, and I am again 
alone ; 

Changed by years ; not wiser, I think, but only differ- 
ent grown : 



!^6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Not so much nearer wisdom is a man than a boy, for- 
sooth, 

Though, in scorn of what has come and gone, he hates 
the ways of his youth. 

In seven years, I have heard it said, a soul shall change 

its frame ; 
Atom for atom, the man shall be the same, yet not the 

same ; 
The last of the ancient ichor shall pass away from his 

veins, 
And a new-born light shall fill the eyes whose earlier 

lustre wanes. 

In seven years, it is written, a man shall shift his 

mood ; 
Good shall seem what was evil, and evil the thing that 

was good : 
Ye that welcome the coming and speed the parting 

guest, 
Tell me, O winds of summer ! am I not half-confest ? 

For along the tide of this mellow month new fancies 
guide my helm, 

Another form has entered my heart as rightful queen 
of the realm ; 

From under their long black lashes new eyes — half- 
blue, half-gray — 

Pierce through my soul, to drive the ghost of the old love 
quite away. 

Shadow of years ! at last it sinks in the sepulchre of 

the past, — 
A gentle image and fair to see ; but was my passion so 

vast ? 



THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. i^y 

" For you," I said, " be you false or true, are ever life 

of my life ! " 
Was it myself or another who spoke, and asked her to 

be his wife ? 

For here, on the dear old hillside, I lie at rest again, 
And think with a quiet self-content of all the passion 

and pain, 
Of the strong resolve and the after-strife ; but the vistas 

round me seem 
So little changed that I hardly know if the past is not 

a dream. 

Can I have sailed, for seven years, far out in the open 

world ; 
Have tacked and drifted here and there, by eddying 

currents whirled ; 
Have gained and lost, and found again ; and now, for a 

respite, come 
Once more to the happy scenes of old, and the haven I 

voyaged from ? 

Blended, infinite murmurs of True Love's earliest song, 
Where are you slumbering out of the heart that gave 

you echoes so long ? 
But chords that have ceased to vibrate the swell of an 

ancient strain 
May thrill with a soulful music when rightly touched 

again. 

Rock and forest and meadow, — landscape perfect and 

true ! 
O, if ourselves were tender and all unchangeful as 

you, 



158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I should not now be dreaming of seven years that have 

been, 
Nor bidding old love good by forever, and letting the 

new love in ! 



O 1 



ESTELLE. 

" How came he mad ? " — Hamlet. 

\Y all the beautiful demons who fasten on human 

hearts 
To fetter the bodies and souls of men with exquisite, 

mocking arts, 
The cruellest, and subtlest, and fairest to mortal sight, 
Is surely a woman called Estelle, who tortures me day 

and night. 

The first time that I saw her she passed with sweet lips 

mute, 
As if in scorn of the vacant praise of those who made 

her suit ; 
A hundred lustres flashed and shone as she rustled 

through the crowd, 
And a passion seized me for her there, — so passionless 

and proud. 

The second time that I saw her she met me face to 

face ; 
Her bending beauty answered my bow in a tremulous 

moment's space ; 
With an upward glance that instantly fell she read me 

through and through, 
And found in me something worth her while to idle 

with and subdue ; 



ESTELLE. 



159 



Something, I know not what : perhaps the spirit of 

eager youth, 
That named her a queen of queens at once, and loved 

her in very truth ; 
That threw its pearl of pearls at her feet, and offered 

her, in a breath, 
The costliest gift a man can give from his cradle to his 

death. 

The third time that I saw her — this woman called 
Estelle — 

She passed her milk-white arm through mine and daz- 
zled me with her spell ; 

A blissful fever thrilled my veins, and there, in the 
moon-beams white, 

I yielded my soul to the fierce control of that madden- 
ing delight ! 

And at many a trysting afterwards she wove my heart- 
strings round 

Her delicate fingers, twisting them, and chanting low 
as she wound ; 

The rune she sang rang sweet and clear like the chime 
of a witch's bell ; 

Its echo haunts me even now, with the word, Estelle ! 
Estelle ! 

Ah, then, as a dozen before me had, I lay at last at her 

feet, 
And she turned me off with a calm surprise when her 

triumph was all complete : 
It made me wild, the stroke which smiled so pitiless 

out of her eyes, 
Like lightning fallen, in clear noonday, from cloudless 

and bluest skies ! 



!6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The whirlwind followed upon my brain and beat my 

thoughts to rack : 
Who knows the many a month I lay ere memory floated 

back ? 
Even now, I tell you, I wonder whether this woman 

called Estelle 
Is flesh and blood, or a beautiful lie, sent up from the 

depths of hell. 

For at night she stands where the pallid moon streams 

into this grated cell, 
And only gives me that mocking glance when I speak 

her name — Estelle / 
With the old resistless longing often I strive to clasp 

her there, 
But she vanishes from my open arms and hides I know 

not where. 

And I hold that if she were human she could not fly 

like the wind, 
But her heart would flutter against my own, in spite 

of her scornful mind : 
Yet, oh ! she is not a phantom, since devils are not so 

bad 
As to haunt and torture a man long after their tricks 

have made him mad ! 



EDGED TOOLS. 



WELL, Helen, quite two years have flown 
Since that enchanted, dreamy night, 
When you and I were left alone, 

And wondered whether they were right 



EDGED TOOLS. j6i 

Who said that each the other loved ; 

And thus debating, yes and no, 
And half in earnest, as it proved, 

We bargained to pretend 't was so. 

Two sceptic children of the world, 

Each with a heart engraven o'er 
With broken love-knots, quaintly curled, 

Of hot flirtations held before ; 
Yet, somehow, either seemed to find, 

This time, a something more akin 
To that young, natural love, — the kind 

Which comes but once, and breaks us in. 

What sweetly stolen hours we knew, 

And frolics perilous as gay ! 
Though lit in sport, Love's taper grew 

More bright and burning day by day. 
We knew each heart was only lent, 

The other's ancient scars to heal : 
The very thought a pathos blent 

With all the mirth we tried to feel. 

How bravely, when the time to part 

Came with the wanton season's close, 
Though nature with our mutual art 

Had mingled more than either chose, 
We smothered Love, upon the verge 

Of folly, in one last embrace, 
And buried him without a dirge, 

And turned, and left his resting-place. 

Yet often (tell me what it means !) 
His spirit steals upon me here, 



!62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Far, far away from all the scenes 
His little lifetime held so dear ; 

He comes : I hear a mystic strain 
In which some tender memory lies ; 

I dally with your hair again ; 
I catch the gleam of violet eyes. 

Ah, Helen ! how have matters been 

Since those rude obsequies, with you ? 
Say, is my partner in the sin 

A sharer of the penance too ? 
Again the vision 's at my side : 

I drop my head upon my breast, 
And wonder if he really died, 

And why his spirit will not rest. 



THE SWALLOW. 

HAD I, my love declared, the tireless wing 
That wafts the swallow to her northern skies, 
I would not, sheer within the rich surprise 
Of full-blown Summer, like the swallow, fling 
My coyer being ; but would follow Spring, 
Melodious consort, as she daily flies, 
Apace with suns, that o'er new woodlands rise 
Each morn — with rains her gentler stages bring. 
My pinions should beat music with her own ; 
Her smiles and odors should delight me ever, 
Gliding, with measured progress, from the zone 
Where golden seas receive the mighty river, 
Unto yon lichened cliffs, whose ridges sever 
Our Norseland from the arctic surge's moan. 



REFUGE IN NATURE. ^3 



REFUGE IN NATURE. 

WHEN the rude world's relentless war has pressed 
Fiercely upon them, and the hot campaign 
Closes with battles lost, some yield their lives, 
Or linger in the ruins of the fight — 
Unwise, and comprehending not their fate, 
Nor gathering that affluent recompense 
Which the all-pitying Earth has yet in store. 
Surely such men have never known the love 
Of Nature ; nor had recourse to her fount 
Of calm delights, whose influences heal 
The wounded spirits of her vanquished sons ; 
Nor ever — in those fruitful earlier days, 
Wherein her manifest forms do most enrich 
Our senses void of subtler cognizance — 
Wandered in summer fields, climbed the free hills, 
Pursued the murmuring music of her streams, 
And found the borders of her sounding sea. 

But thou — when, in the multitudinous lists 
Of traffic, all thine own is forfeited 
At some wild hazard, or by weakening drains 
Poured from thee ; or when, striving for the meed 
Of place, thou failest, and the lesser man 
By each ignoble method wins thy due ; 
When the injustice of the social world 
Environs thee ; when ruthless public scorn, 
Black slander, and the meannesses of friends 
Have made the bustling practice of the world 
To thee a discord and a mockery ; 
Or even if that last extremest pang 



!64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Be thine, and, added to such other woes, 

The loss of that forever faithful love 

Which else had balanced all : the putting out, 

Untimely, of the light in dearest eyes ; — 

At such a time thou well may'st count the days 

Evil, and for a season quit the field ; 

Yet not surrendering all human hopes, 

Nor the rich physical life which still remains 

God's boon and thy sustainer. It were base 

To join alliance with the hosts of Fate 

Against thyself, crowning their victory 

By loose despair, or seeking rest in death. 

More wise, betake thee to those sylvan haunts 
Thou knewest when young, and, once again a child, 
Let their perennial loveliness renew 
Thy natural faith and childhood's heart serene. 
Forgetting all the toilsome pilgrimage, 
Awake from strife and shame, as from a dream 
Dreamed by a boy, when under waving trees 
He sleeps and dreams a languid afternoon. 
Once more from these harmonious beauties gain 
Repose and ransom, and a power to feel 
The immortal gladness of inanimate things. 

There is the mighty Mother, ever young 
And garlanded, and welcoming her sons. 
There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain, 
And merge thy little, individual woe 
In the broad health and happy fruitfulness 
Of all that smiles around thee. For thy sake 
The woven arches of her forests breathe 
Perpetual anthems, and the blue skies smile 
Between, to heal thee with their infinite hope. 






MONTAGU. ^5 

There are her crystal waters : lave thy brows, 

Hot with long turmoil, in their purity ; 

Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbs 

Blood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall come 

Upon thee ; waking, thou shalt find in bloom 

The lilies, fresh as in the olden days ; 

And once again, when Night unveils her stars, 

Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance, 

And feel the old, mysterious awe subdue 

The phantoms of thy pain. 

And from that height 
A voice shall whisper of the faith, through which 
A man may act his part until the end. 
Anon thy ancient yearning for the fight 
May come once more, tempered by poise of chance, 
And guided well with all experience. 
Invisible hands may gird thy armor on, 
And Nature put new weapons in thy hands, 
Sending thee out to try the world again, — 
Perchance to conquer, being cased in mail 
Of double memories ; knowing smaller griefs 
Can add no sorrow to the woful past ; 
And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall, 
Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere, 
And Heaven's promise is for aye the same. 



MONTAGU. 

QUEEN Katherine of Arragon 
In gray Kimbolton dwelt, 
A joyous bride, ere bluff King Hal 
At Bullen's footstool knelt. 



l66 miscellaneous poems. 

Still in her haughty Spanish eyes 
Their childhood's lustre shone, 

That lit with love two royal hearts, 
And won the English throne. 

From gray Kimbolton's castle-gate 
She rode, each summer's day, 

And blithely led the greenwood chase 
With hawk and hound away. 

And ever handsome Montagu, 
Her Master of the Horse, 

To guard his mistress kept her pace 
O'er heather, turf, and gorse. 

O, who so brave as Montagu 
To leap the hedges clear ! 

And who so fleet as he to find 
The coverts of the deer ! 

And who so wild as Montagu, 
To seek his sovereign's love ! 

More hopeless than a child, who craves 
The brightest star above. 

Day after day her presence fed 

The fever at his heart ; 
Yet loyally the young knight scorned 

To play a traitor's part. 

Only, when at her palfrey's side 
He bowed him by command, 

Lightening her footfall to the earth, 
He pressed her dainty hand ; 



i6 7 



MONTAGU. 

A tender touch, as light as love, 
Soft as his heart's desire ; 

But aye, in Katherine's artless blood, 
It woke no answering fire. 

King Hal to gray Kimbolton came 
Erelong, and true love's sign, 

Unused in colder Arragon, 
She prayed him to divine : 



" Canst tell me, Sire," she said, " what mean 

The gentry of your land, 
When softly, thus, and thus, they take 

And press a lady's hand ? " 

" Ha ! ha ! " laughed Hal, "but tell me, Chick, 

Each answering in course, 
Do any press your hand ? " " O yes, 

My Master of the Horse." 

Off to the wars her gallant went, 

And pushed the foremost dikes, 
And gashed his fair young form against 

A score of Flemish pikes. 

Heart's blood ebbed fast ; but Montagu, 

Dipping a finger, wove 
These red words in his shield : " Dear Queen, 

I perish of your love ! " 

Kimbolton, after many a year, 

Again met Katherine's view : 
The banished wife, with half a sigh, 

Remembered Montagu. 



!63 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



WILD WINDS WHISTLE. 

i. 

SIR ULRIC a Southern dame has wed; 
Wild winds whistle and snow is come; 
He has brought her home to his bower and bed. 
Hither and thither the birds fly , 



Her hair is darker than thick of night ; 

Wild winds whistle, &c. 
Her hands are fair, and her step is light. 

Hither and thither, Gr'c. 

From out his castel in the North 
Sir Ulric to hunt rode lightly forth. 

Three things he left her for good or ill, — 
A bonny bird that should sing at will, 

With carol sweeter than silver bell, 
Day and night in the old castel ; 

A lithe little page to gather flowers ; 
And a crystal dial to mark the hours. 



Lady Margaret watched Sir Ulric speed 
Away to the chase on his faithful steed. 

From morning till night, the first day long, 
She sat and listened the bonny bird's song. 



WILD WINDS WHISTLE. Y § 

The second day long, with fingers fair, 
She curled and combed her page's hair. 

The third day's sun rose up on high ; 
By the dial she was seated nigh : 

She loathed the bird and the page's face, 
And counted the shadow's creeping pace. 

3- 

The strange knight drew his bridle-rein ; 

He looked at the sky and he looked at the plain. 

" O lady ! " he said, " 't was a sin and shame 
To leave for the chase so fair a dame. 

" O lady ! " he said, "we two will flee 
To the blithesome land of Italie ; 

" There the orange grows, and the fruitful vine, 
And a bower of myrtle shall be thine." 

He has taken her hand and kissed her mouth : 
Now Ho ! sing Ho ! for the sunny South. 

He has kissed her mouth and clasped her waist : 
Now, good gray steed, make haste, make haste ! 

4- 
Sir Ulric back from the chase has come, 
And sounds the horn at his castel-home. 

Or ever he drew his bridle-rein, 
He saw the dial split in twain ; 



IJq MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The bonny blithe bird was stark and dead, 
And the lithe little page hung down his head. 

The lithe little page hung down his head ; 

Wild winds whistle and snow is come; 
" O where, Sir Page, has my lady fled ? " 

Hither and thither the birds fly home. 



PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL 

I JAN. A. C. l66l. 

WHERE nowadays the Battery lies, 
New York had just begun, 
A new-born babe, to rub its eyes, 

In Sixteen Sixty-One. 
They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam, 

Those burghers grave and stately, 
And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm, 
Lived out their lives sedately. 

Two windmills topped their wooden wall, 

On Stadthuys gazing down, 
On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all 

The quaintly gabled town ; 
These napped their wings and shifted backs, 

As ancient scrolls determine, 
To scare the savage Hackensacks, 

Paumanks, and other vermin. 

At night the loyal settlers lay 
Betwixt their feather-beds ; 



PETER STUYVESANT'S CALL. 

In hose and breeches walked by day, 
And smoked, and wagged their heads. 

No changeful fashions came from France, 
The freulen to bewilder, 

And cost the burgher's purse, perchance, 
Its every other guilder. 

In petticoats of linsey-red, 

And jackets neatly kept, 
The vrouws their knitting-needles sped 

And deftly spun and swept. 
Few modern-school flirtations there 

Set wheels of scandal trundling, 
But youths and maidens did their share 

Of staid, old-fashioned bundling. 

— The New Year opened clear and cold ; 

The snow, a Flemish ell 
In depth, lay over Beeckman's Wold 

And Wolfert's frozen well. 
Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors, 

Drew on his Holland leather, 
Then stamped through drifts to do the chores, 

Beshrewing all such weather. 

But — after herring, ham, and kraut — 

To all the gathered town 
The Dominie preached the morning out, 

In Calvinistic gown ; 
While tough old Peter Stuyvesant 

Sat pewed in foremost station, — 
The potent, sage, and valiant 

Third Governor of the nation. 



171 



172 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Prayer over, at his mansion hall, 

With cake and courtly smile 
He met the people, one and all, 

In gubernatorial style ; 
Yet missed, though now the day was old, 

An ancient fellow-feaster, — 
Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold 
. Brewer and burgomeester ; 

Who, in his farm-house, close without 

The picket's eastern end, 
Sat growling at the twinge of gout 

That kept him from his friend. 
But Peter strapped his wooden peg, 

When tea and cake were ended 
(Meanwhile the sound remaining leg 

Its high jack-boot defended), 

A woolsey cloak about him threw, 

And swore, by wind and limb, 
Since Govert kept from Peter's view, 

Peter would visit him ; 
Then sallied forth, through snow and blast, 

While many a humble greeter 
Stood wondering whereaway so fast 

Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter. 

Past quay and cowpath, through a lane 

Of vats and mounded tans, 
He puffed along, with might and main, 

To Govert Loockermans ; 
Once there, his right of entry took, 

And hailed his ancient crony : 
" Myn G6d ! in dese Manhattoes, Loock, 

Ve gets more snow as money ! " 






PETER STUYVESANT'S CALL. 

To which, and after whiffs profound, 

With doubtful wink and nod, 
There came at last responsive sound : 

" Yah, Peter ; yah, Myn G<5d ! " 
Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest 

Beneath the chimney-gable, 
And courtesied, bustling at her best 

To spread the New Year's table. 

She brought the pure and genial schnapps, 

That years before had come — 
In the " Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps — 

To cheer the settlers' home ; 
The long-stemmed pipes ; the fragrant roll 

Of pressed and crispy Spanish ; 
Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, 

Nor long delayed to vanish. 

Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, 

And honors of the day, 
The trader mixed the Governor's drink 

As evening sped away. 
That ancient room ! I see it now : 

The carven nutwood dresser ; 
The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw 

Begrudged their rich possessor ; 

The brace of high-backed leathern chairs, 

Brass-nailed at every seam ; 
Six others, ranged in equal pairs ; 

The bacon hung abeam ; 
The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft ; 

The hearty wooden fire ; 
The picture, on the steaming delft, 

Of David and Goliah. 



173 



74 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I see the two old Dutchmen sit 

Like Magog and his mate, 
And hear them, when their pipes are lit, 

Discuss affairs of state : 
The clique that would their sway demean ; 

The pestilent importation 
Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean 

And losel Yankee nation. 

But when the subtle juniper 

Assumed its sure command, 
They drank the buxom loves that were, — 

They drank the Motherland ; 
They drank the famous Swedish wars, 

Stout Peter's special glory, 
While Govert proudly showed the scars 

Of Indian contests gory. 

Erelong, the berry's power awoke 

Some music in their brains, 
And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke, 

Rang long-forgotten strains, — 
Old Flemish snatches, full of blood, 

Of phantom ships and battle ; 
And Peter, with his leg of wood, 

Made floor and casement rattle. 

Then round and round the dresser pranced, 

The chairs began to wheel, 
And on the board the punch-bowl danced 

A Netherlandish reel ; 
Till midnight o'er the farm-house spread 

Her New- Year's skirts of sable, 
And, inch by inch, each puzzled head 

Dropt down upon the table. 



PETER STUYVESANT'S CALL. ij$ 

But still to Peter, as he dreamed, 

That table spread and turned ; 
The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed 

To circle as it burned ; 
The town into the vision grew 

From ending to beginning ; 
Fort, wall, and windmill met his view, 

All widening and spinning. 

The cowpaths, leading to the docks, 

Grew broader, whirling past, 
And checkered into shining blocks, — 

A city fair and vast ; 
Stores, churches, mansions, overspread 

The metamorphosed island, 
While not a beaver showed his head 

From Swamp to Kalchook highland. 

Eftsoons the picture passed away ; 

Hours after, Peter woke 
To see a spectral streak of day 

Gleam in through fading smoke ; 
Still slept old Govert, snoring on 

In most melodious numbers ; 
No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One 

Commingled with his slumbers. 

But Peter, from the farm-house door, 

Gazed doubtfully around, 
Rejoiced to find himself once more 

On sure and solid ground. 
The sky was somewhat dark ahead, 

Wind east, and morning lowery ; 
And on he pushed, a two-miles' tread, 

To breakfast at his Bouwery. 



TRANSLATION 



^ 




TRANSLATION. 



JEAN PROUVAIRE'S SONG AT THE BARRICADE. 

"While the men were making cartridges and the women lint ; while a 
large frying-pan, full of melted pewter and lead, destined for the bullet- 
mould, was smoking over a burning furnace ; while the videttes were 
watching the barricades with arms in their hands ; while Enjolras, whom 
nothing could distract, was watching the videttes, — Combeferre, Courfey- 
rac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, a few others besides, 
sought each other and got together, as in the most peaceful days of their 
student-chats, and in a corner of this wine-shop changed into a casemate, 
within two steps of the redoubt which they had thrown up, their carbines, 
primed and loaded, resting on the backs of their chairs, these gallant 

young men, so near their last hour, began to sing love-rhymes The 

hour, the place, these memories of youth recalled, the few stars which 
began to shine in the sky, the funereal repose of these deserted streets, 
the imminence of the inexorable event, gave a pathetic charm to these 
rhymes, murmured in a low tone in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, 
as we have said, was a sweet poet." — Les Miserables : Saint Denis, 
Book XII. Chapter VI. 

DO you remember our charming times, 
When we were both at the age which knows, 
Of all the pleasures of Paris, none 

Like making love in one's Sunday clo'es ; 

When all your birthdays, added to mine, 
A total of forty would not bring, 



!8o TRANSLATION. 

And when, in our humble and cosey roost, 
All, even the Winter, to us was Spring ? 

Rare days ! then prudish Manuel stalked, 

Paris feasted each saintsday in ; 
Foy thundered away ; and — ah, your waist 

Pricked me well with a truant pin ! 

Every one ogled you. At Prado's, 
Where you and your briefless barrister dined, 

You were so fair that the roses, I thought, 
Turned to look at you from behind. 

They seemed to whisper : " How handsome she is ! 

What wavy tresses ! what sweet perfume ! 
Under her mantle she hides her wings ; 

Her flower of a bonnet is just in bloom ! " 

I roamed with you, pressing your dainty arm, 
And the passers thought that Love, in play, 

Had mated, in unison so sweet, 
The gallant April with gentle May. 

We lived so coseyly, all by ourselves, 
On love, — that choice forbidden fruit, — 

And never a word my lips could speak 
But your heart already had followed suit. 

The Sarbonne was that bucolic place 
Where night till day my passion throve : 

'T is thus that an ardent youngster makes , 

The Student's Quarter a Realm of Love. 

O Place Maubert ! O Place Dauphine ! 
Sky-parlor reaching heavenward far, 



JEAN PROUVAIRE'S SONG. ^i 

In whose depths, when you drew your stocking on, 
I saw a twinkling morning-star. 

Hard-learned Plato I 've long forgot : 
Neither Malebranche nor Lamennais 

Could teach me such faith in Providence 
As the flower which in your bosom lay. 

You were my servant and I your slave : 

O golden attic ! O joy, to lace 
Your corset ; to watch you showing, at morn, 

The ancient mirror your youthful face ! 

Ah ! who indeed could ever forget 

That sky and dawn commingling still ; 

That ribbony, flowery, gauzy glory, 
And Love's sweet nonsense talked at will ? 

Our garden a pot of tulips was ; 

Your petticoat curtained the window-pane ; 
I took the earthen bowl of my pipe 

And gave you a cup of porcelain. 

What huge disasters to make us fun ! 

Your muff afire ; your tippet lost ; 
And that cherished portrait of Shakespeare, sold, 

One hungry evening, at half its cost. 

I was a beggar and you were kind : 

A kiss from your fair round arms I 'd steal, 

While the folio-Dante we gayly spread 
With a hundred chestnuts, our frugal meal. 

And oh ! when first my favored mouth 
A kiss to your burning lips had given, 



1 82 TRANSLA TION. 

You were dishevelled and all aglow ; 

I, pale with rapture, believed in Heaven. 

Do you remember our countless joys, 
Those neckerchiefs rumpled every day ? 

Alas, what sighs from our boding hearts 
The infinite skies have borne away ! 




THE BLAMELESS PRINCE 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



1869. 



&ffEctt0ttatel2 Enscri&etr 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, 




THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



PRELUDE. 

T)OET, wlierefore hither bring 
Old romance, while others sing 
Sweeter idyls of to-day ? 
Why not picticre in your lay 
Western woods and waters grand, 
Clouds and skies of this fair land? 
Are there fairer far away? 

I have many another song 
Of those regions where belong, 

First of all, my heart and home. 

If for once my fancy roam, 
Trust me, in the land I view 
Falls the sunshine, falls the dew, 

And the Spring and Summer come. 

Why from yonder stubble glean 
Ancient names of King and Queen, 

Knightly men and maidens fair ? 

Are there in our time no rare 
Beauteous women, heroes brave ? 



[88 THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 

Is there naught this side the grave 
Worth the dust yon gather there? 

Nay, but these were human too, 
Strong or wayward, false or true. 
Art will seek through every clime 
For her picture or her rhyme ; 
Yes, nor looking far around, 
But to-day I sought and found 
These who lived in that old time. 

Why should we again be told 
Dross will mingle with all gold? 
That which time nor test can stain 
Was not smelted quite in vain. 
What of A lb erf s blameless heart, 
Arthur's old heroic part, 

Saxon Alfred's glorious reigti ? 

Yes, my Prince was such as they, 
Part of gold, and part of clay, 

Though his metal shone as bright, 
And his dross was hid from sight. 
He who brightest is, and best, 
Still may fear the secret test 
That shall try his heart aright. 



Let me, then, of what befell 
Hearts that loved, my story tell. 
Turn the leaf that lies between 
You who listen and the scene ! 
Your pity for the Lady, since 
She died of sorrow ; spare my Prince 
Love to the last my gentle Queen ! 




THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

LONG since, there was a Princess of the blood, 
Sole heiress to the crown her father wore, — 
Plucked from a dying stem, that one fair bud 
Put forth, and withered ere it others bore ; 
And scarce the King her blossomed youth had seen, 
When he, too, slept the sleep, and she was Queen. 

Hers was a goodly realm, not stretched afar 
In desert wilds by wolf and savage scoured, 

But locked in generous limits, strong in war, 

Serene in peace, with mountains walled and towered, 

Fed by the tilth of many a fertile plain, 

And veined with streams that proudly sought the main. 

The open sea bore commerce to her marts, 
Tumbling half round her borders with its tide ; 

Her vessels shot the surge ; all noble arts 
Of use and beauty in her towns were plied ; 

Her court was regal ; lords and ladies lit 

The palace with their graces and their wit. 

Wise councillors devised each apt decree 

That gained the potent sanction of her hand ; 

Great captains led her arms on shore and sea ; 
She was the darling of a loyal land ; 

Poets sang her praises, and in hut and hall 

Her excellence was the discourse of all. 



190 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 



Her pride was suited to her high estate, 
Her gentleness was equal with her youth, 

Her wisdom in her goodness found its mate ; 
Her beauty was not that which brings to ruth 

Men's lives, yet pure and luminous ; — and fair 

Her locks, and over all a sovereign air. 

Without, she bore herself as rulers should, 
Queenly in walk and gesture and attire ; 

Within, she nursed her flower of maidennood, 
Sweet girlish thoughts and virginal desire : 

No woman's head so keen to work its will 

But that the woman's heart is mistress still. 

Three years she ruled a nation well content 
To have a maiden queen ; then came a day 

When those on whom her councils chiefly leant 
Began to speak of marriage, and to pray 

Their sovereign not to hold herself alone, 

Nor trust the tenure of an heirless throne ; 

And then the people took the cry, nor lack 
Was there of courtly suitors far or near, — 

Kings, dukes, crown-princes, — swift upon the track, 
Like huntsmen closing round a royal deer. 

These she regarded not, but still, among 

Her maids and missals, to her freedom clung. 

And with the rest there came a puissant king, 

Whose country pressed against her own domain, — 

In strength its equal, but continuing 

Its dearest foe through many a martial reign. 

He sued to join his hand and realm with hers, 

And end these wars ; then all her ministers 



i9i 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 

Pleaded his suit ; but, asking yet for grace, 
And that her hand might wait upon her heart, 

She halted, till the proud king turned his face 
Homeward ; and still the people, for their part, 

Waited her choice, nor grudged her sex's share 

Of coyness to a queen so young and fair. 

There was a little State that nestled close 
Beside her boundaries, as wont to claim, 

Though free, protection there from outer foes, 
A Principality — at least in name — 

Whose ruler was her father's life-long friend 

And firm ally, a statesman skilled to lend 



Shrewd counsel, and who made, in days gone by, 

A visit to this court, and with him led 
His son, a gentle Prince, of years anigh 

Her own, — twelve summers shone from either head ; 
And while their elders moved from place to place, — 
The field-review, the audience, the chase, — 

The Princess and the Prince, together thrown, 
With their companions held a mimic court, 

And with that sweet equality, the crown 

Of Childhood, — which discovers in its sport 

No barriers of rank or wealth or power, — 

He named himself her consort. From that hour 

The mindful Princess never quite forgot 

Those joyous days, nor him, the fair-haired Prince ; 

And though she well had learned her greater lot, 
And haply from his thought had passed long since 

Her girlish image, chance, that moves between 

Two courts, had brought his portrait to the Queen. 



!Q2 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

This from her cabinet she took one morn, 

When they still urged the suit of that old king, 

And said, half jesting, with a pretty scorn, 

" Why mate your wilful Queen with mouldering 

And crabbed Age ? Now were he shaped like this, 

With such a face, he were not so amiss. 

" Queens are but women ; 't is a sickly year 

That couples frost and thaw, our minstrels sing." — 

" Ho ! " thought the graybeards, " sets the wind so 
near ? " 
And thought again : " Why not ? the schemeful king 

Perchance would rule us where he should be ruled ; 

A humbler consort will be sooner schooled." 

Forewarned are those whom Fortune's gifts await. 

Ere waned a moon the elder prince had learned — 
From half the weathercocks which gilt the state, 

Spying the wind and shifting where it turned — 
That for love's simple sake his son could gain 
The world's chief prize, which kings had sought in vain. 

How could he choose but clutch it ? Yet the son 
Seemed worthy, for his parts were of that mould 

Oft-failing Nature strives to join in one, 

And shape a hero, — pure and wise and bold : 

In arts and arms the wonder of his peers, 

The flower of princes, prince of cavaliers ; 

Tall, lithe of form, and of a Northern mien, 

Gentle in speech and thought, — while thus he shone, 

A rising star, though chosen of a queen, 

Why seek the skies less tranquil than his own ? 

Why should he climb beside her perilous height, 

And in that noonday blaze eclipse his light ? 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

Ah, why ? — one's own life may be bravely led, 
But not another's. Yet, as to and fro 

The buzzing private embassies were sped, 

And when the Queen's own pages, bowing low, 

Told in his ear a sweet and secret story, 

The Prince, long trained to seek his house's glory, 

Let every gracious sentence seem a plume 
Of love and beckoning beauty for his helm. 

So passed a season ; then the cannon's boom 
And belfry's peal delivered to the realm 

The Queen's betrothal, and the councils met, 

And for the nuptial rites a day was set. 



^93 



NOW when the time grew ripe, the favored Prince 
Rides forth, and through the little towns that mourn 
His loss, and past the boundaries ; and, since 
To ape the pomp to which he was not born 
Seemed in his soul a foolish thing and vain, 
A few near comrades, only, made his train. 

Nor pressed the populace along the ways ; 

But — for he wished it so — unheralded 
He rode from post to post through many days, 

Yet gained a greatness as the distance fled, 
As some dim comet, drawing near its bound. 
Takes lustre from the orb it courses round. 

9 M 



194 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



And league by league his fantasies outran 

His progress, brooding on his mistress' power, 

Until his own estate the while began 

To seem of lesser worth each passing hour ; 

And with misdoubt this fortune weighed him down, 

As though a splendid mantle had been thrown 

About him, which he knew not well to wear, 
And might not forfeit. Yet he spurred apace, 

And reached a country-seat that bordered near 
The Capital. Here, for a little space, 

He was to rest from travel, and await 

His day of entrance at the city's gate. 

Upon these grounds a gray-haired noble dwelt, 
A ribboned courtier of the former reign ; 

A tedious proper man, who glibly knelt 
To royalty, — this ancient chamberlain, — 

Yoked with a girlish wife, and, for the rest, 

Proud of the charge that made a prince his guest. 

The highway ran beside a greenwood keep 

That reached, herefrom, quite to the city's edge ; 

Across, the fields with golden corn were deep ; 
The level sunset pierced the wayside hedge ; 

The banks were all abloom ; a pheasant whirred 

Far in the bush ; anon, some tuneful bird 

Broke into song, or, from a covert dark, 

A bounding deer its dappled haunches showed 

As though it heard the stag-hound's distant bark. 
The wistful Prince with loitering purpose bode, 

And thought how good it were to spend one's life 

Far off from men, nor jostled with their strife. 



195 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 

Even as he mused he saw his host ahead, 
Speeding to welcome him, in lordly wont, 

And all the household in a line bestead ; 
And lightly with that escort, at the front, 

A peerless woman rode across the green ; 

Then the Prince thought, " It surely is the Queen, 

Who comes to meet me of her loving grace ! " 
And his blood mounted ; but he knew how fair 

The royal locks, and, when she neared his place, 
He saw the lady's prodigal dark hair 

And wondrous loveliness were wide apart 

From the sweet, tranquil picture next his heart. 



And when the chamberlain, with halted suit, 

Made reverence, and was answered courteous-wise, 

The lady to her knightly guest's salute 

Turned her face full, so that he marked her eyes, — 

How dewy gray beneath each long, black lid, 

And danger somewhere in their light lay hid. 

There are some natures housed so chaste within 
Their placid dwellings that their heads control 

The tumult of their hearts ; and thus they win 
A quittance from this pleading of the soul 

For Love, whose service does so wound and heal ; 

How should they crave for what they cannot feel ? 

From passion and from pain enfranchised quite, 
Alike from gain and never-stanched Regret, 

Calm as the blind who have not seen the light, 
The dumb who hear no precious voice ; and yet 

The sun forever pours his lambent fire 

And the high winds are vocal with desire. 






!g6 the blameless prince. 

And there are those whose fervent souls are wed 
To glorious bodies, panoplied for love, 

Born to hear sweetest words that can be said, 
To give and gather kisses, and to move 

All men with longing after them, — to know 

What flowers of paradise for lovers grow. 

The Vestal, with her silvery content, 

The Lesbian, with the passion and the pain, — 

Which creature hath their one Creator lent 

More light of heaven ? Who would dare restrain 

The beams of either ? who the radiance mar 

Of the white planet or the burning star ? 

If in its innocence a life is bound 

With cords that thrall its birthright and design, 
Let those whose hands the evil meshes wound 

Pray that it cast no look beyond their line ; 
That no strong voice too late may enter in 
Its prison-range, to teach what might have been. 

Was there no conscious spirit thus to plead 
For this bright lady, as the wondering guest 

Closed with his welcomers, and each took heed 
Of each, and horse to horse they rode abreast, 

Nearing a fair and spacious house that stood, 

Half hidden, in the edges of the wood ? 

And while, the last court-tidings running o'er, 
Their talk on this and that at random fell, 

And the trains joined behind, the lady bore 
Her beauteous head askance, yet wist full well 

How the Prince looked and spoke ; unwittingly, 

With the strange female sense and secret eye, 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. igy 

Made of him there her subtile estimate, 
Forecast his lot, and thought how all things flow 

To those who have a surfeit. Could the great, 
The perfect Queen, she marvelled, truly know 

And love him at his value ? In his turn, 

He read her face as 't were a marble urn 

Embossed with Truth and blushful Innocence, 
Yet with the wild Loves carven in repose ; 

And as he looked he felt, and knew not whence, 
A thought like this come as the wind that blows : 

" A face to lose one's life for ; ay, and more, 

To live for ! " — So they reached the sculptured door 

And casements gilded with the dying light. 

That eve the host spread out a stately board, 
And with his household far into the night 

Feasted the Prince. The lady, next her lord, 
Drooped like a musk-rose trained beside a tomb. 
Loath was the guest that night to seek his room. 



AH ! wherefore tell again an oft-told tale, — 
That of the sleeping knight who lost his wage 
In the enchanted land, though cased with mail, 

And bore the sacred shrine an empty gage ? 
How this thing went it were not worth to view 
But for the triple coil which thence outgrew ; 



igS THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

How, with the morn, the ancient chamberlain 
Made off, and on the marriage business moved ; 

How day by day those young hearts fed amain 
Upon the food of lovers, till — they loved. 

Beneath the mists of duty and degree 

A warmth of passion crept deliriously 

About the twain ; and there, within the gleam 
Of those gray languid eyes, his nearing fate 

Seemed to the one a far, unquiet dream. 
So when the heralds said, " All things await 

Your princely coming," the glad summons broke 

Upon him like a harsh bell's jangling stroke, 

And waked him, and he knew he must be gone 
And put that honeyed chalice quite away ; 

Yet once more met the lady, and alone, 

It chanced, within the grounds. The two, that day, 

Lured by a falling water's sound, went deep 

Beyond the sunlight, in the forest-keep. 

Here from a range of wooded uplands leapt 
A mountain brook and far-off meadows sought ; 

Now under firs and tasselled chestnuts crept, 
Then on through jagged rocks a passage fought, 

Until it clove this shadowy gorge and cool 

In one white cataract, — with a dark, broad pool 

Beneath, the home of mottled trout. One side 
Rose the cliff's hollowed height, and overhung 

An open sward across that basin wide. 

The liberal sun through slanting larches flung 

Rich spots of gold upon the tufted ground, 

And the great royal forest gloomed around, 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. jgg 

The Prince, divided from the world so far, 

Sat with the lady on a fallen tree ; 
They looked like lovers, yet a prison-bar 

Between them had not made the two less free. 
Only their eyes told what they could not say, 
For still their lips spoke alien words that day. 

She told a legend of an early king 

Who knew the fairy of this wildwood glen, 

And often sought her haunt, far off to fling 
His grandeur, and be loved like common men. 

He died long since, the lady said ; but she, 

Who could not die, how weary she must be ! 

They talked of the strange beauty of the spot, 
The light that glinted through the ancient trees, 

Their own young lives, the Prince's future lot ; 
Then jested with false laughs. Like tangled bees, 

Each other and themselves they sweetly stung ; 

They sung fond songs, and mocked the words they sung. 

At last he hung his picture by a chain 

About her neck, and on it graved the date. 

Her merry eyes grew soft with tender pain ; 
She heard him sigh, " Alas, by what rude fate 

Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, 

Then part forever on their courses fleet ! " 

And in sheer pity of herself she dropped 

Her lovely head ; and, though with self she strove, 

One hot tear fell. The shadow, which had stopped 
On her life's dial, moved again, and Love 

Went sobbing by, and only left his wraith ; 

For both were loyal to their given faith. 



200 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

Farewells they breathed and self-reproaches found, 
Half gliding with the current to the fall, 

Yet struggling for the shore. Was she not bound ? 
Did not his plighted future, like a wall, 

Jut 'cross the stream ? They feared themselves, and rose, 

And through the forest gained the mansion-close 

Unmissed, and parted thus, nor met anew ; 

For on the morrow, when the Prince took horse, 
The lady feigned an illness, or 't was true, — 

Yet maybe from her oriel marked his course, 
Watching his plume, that into distance past, 
Like some dear sail which sinks from sight at last. 

He rode beneath their arch, where pennons flared 
And standards with his colors blazoned in. 

Then thousands shouted welcome ; trumpets blared ; 
He felt the glories of his life begin ! 

Far, far behind, that eddy in its stream 

Now seemed ; its vanished shores, in turn, a dream. 

Enough ; he passed the ways and reached the Queen. 

With pomp and pageantry the vows were said 
Leave to the chroniclers the storied scene, 

The church, the court, the masks and jousts that sped ; 
Not theirs, but ours, to follow Love apart, 
Where first the bridegroom held his bride to heart, 

And saw her purity and regnant worth • 

Thus kept for him and yielded to his care. 

What marvel that of all who dwelt on earth 
He seemed most fortunate and she most fair 

That self-same hour ? And " By God's grace," he thought, 

" May I to some ignoble end be brought, 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 2 ( 

" Unless I so reward her for her choice, 
And shape my future conduct in this land 

By her deserving, that the world's great voice 
Proclaim me not unworthy ! Let my hand 

Henceforward make her tasks its own ; my life 

Be merged in this fair ruler, precious wife, 

" The paragon and glory of her kind ! " 

Who reads his own heart will not think it strange 

He put that yester romance from his mind 
So readily. Men's lives, like oceans, change 

In shifting tides, and ebb from either shore 

Till the strong planet draws them on once more. 



AND as a pilgrim, shielded by the wings 
Of some bright angel, crosses perilous ground, 
Through unknown ways, and, while she leads and sings, 

Forgets the past, nor sees what pits surround 
His footsteps, so the young Prince cast away 
That self-distrust, and with his sovereign May 

The gladness joined, and with her sat in state, 
Beneath the ancient scutcheons of her throne, 

And welcome gave, and led the revels late ; 

But when the still and midnight heavens shone 

They fled the masquers, and the city's hum 

Was silent, and the palace halls grew dumb, 
9* 



202 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

And Love and Sleep in that serene eclipse 

Moved, making prince and clown of one degree, 
Then was she all his own ; then from her lips 

He learned with what a sweet humility- 
She, whose least word a spacious kingdom ruled, 
In Love's free vassalage would fain be schooled. 

How poor, she said, her sovereignty seemed, 

Unless it made her richer in his eye ! 
And poor his life, until her sunlight beamed 

Upon it, said the Prince. So months went by ; 
They were a gracious pair ; the Queen was glad ; 
Peace smiled, and the wide land contentment had. 

And for a time the courteous welcome paid 
The chosen consort, and the people's joy 

In the Queen's joy, kept silent those who weighed 
The Prince's make, and sought to find alloy 

In his fin'e gold ; but, when the freshness fled 

From these things told, some took new thought and said : 

" Look at the Queen : her heart is wholly set 
Upon the Prince ! what if he warp her mind 

To errant policies, and rule us yet 

By proxy ? " " What and if he prove the kind 

Of trifling gallant," others said, " to slight 

Our mistress, for each new and base delight ? 

" Ay, we will watch him, lest he do her wrong ! " 
And his due station, even from the first, 

The peers of haughty rank and lineage long, 
Jealous of one whose blossom at a burst 

Outflamed their own, begrudged him ; till their piquc 

Grew plain, and sent proud color to his cheek. 



THE BLAMELESS PELWCE. 



203 



So now he fared as some new actor fares, 
Who through dark arras gains the open boards, 

Facing the lights, and feels a thousand stares 

Come full upon him ; and the great throng hoards 

Its plaudits ; and, as he begins his tale, 

His rivals wait to mock him if he fail. 

But here a brave simplicity of soul 

And careless vigilance, by honor bred, 
Stayed him, and o'er his actions held control. 

A host of generous virtues stood in stead, 
To help him on ; with patient manliness 
He kept his rank, no greater and no less ; 

His life was as a limpid rivulet ; 

His thoughts, like golden sands, were through it seen, 
Not on himself in poor ambition set, 

But on his chosen country and the Queen ; 
And with such gentle tact he bore a sense 
Of conduct due, nor took nor gave offence, 

That, as time went, he earned their trust, who first 
Withheld it him, and brought them, one by one, 

To seek him for a comrade ; but he nursed 
His friendships with such equal care that none 

Could claim him as their own ; nor was his word 

Of counsel dulled by being often heard ; 

Nor would he sully his fresh youth among 
The roisterers and pretty wanton dames 

Who strove to win him ; nor with ribald tongue 
Joined in the talk that round a palace flames ; 

Nor came and went alone, save — 't was his wont 

In his own land — he haply left the hunt 



204 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 



On forest days, and, plunging down the wood, 
There in the brakes and copses half forgot 

The part he bore, and caught anew the mood 
Of youth, and felt a heart for any lot ; 

Then, loitering cityward behind the train, 

With fresher courage took his place again. 

His pure life made the wits about the court 

Find in its very blamelessness a fault 
That lacked the generous failings of their sort. 

" With so much sweet," they swore, " a grain of salt 
Were welcome ! lighter tongue and freer mood 
Were something more of man, if less of prude ! " 

And others to his praises would oppose 
Suspicion of his prowess, and they said, 

" Our rose of princes is a thornless rose, 

A woman's toy ! " and, when the months were sped, 

And the glad Queen was childed with a son, 

Light jests upon his mission well begun 

They bandied ; yet the Prince, who felt the sting, 
Bided his time. Till on the land there brake 

A sudden warfare ; for that haughty king, 
Gathering a mighty armament to take 

Revenge for his lost suit, with sword and flame 

Against the borders on short pretext came. 

Then with hot haste the Queen's whole forces poured 
To meet him. With the call to horse and blade 

The Prince, deep-chafed in spirit, placed his sword 
At orders of the General, and prayed 

A humble station, but, as due his rank, 

Next in command was made, and led the flank. 



205 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 

And so with doubtful poise a fierce war raged, 
Till on a day encountered face to face 

The two chief hosts, and dreadful battle waged 
To close the issue. In its opening space 

Death smote the General, and in tumult sore 

The line sank back ; but swiftly, at the fore 

Placing himself, the Prince right onward hurled 
The strife once more, and with his battle-shout 

Woke victory ; again his forces whirled 

The hostile troops, and drove them on in rout. 

The strength of ten battalions seemed to yield 

Before his arm ; and so he won that field, 



And slew with his own hand the vengeful king, 

And with that death-stroke brought the war to end, 

Conquering the common foe, and conquering 
The hate, from which he would not else defend 

His clear renown than with such manful deeds 

As fall to faith and valor at their needs. 

Again — this time the chaplet was his own — 
The people wreathed their laurels for his brow ; 

His horses trod on flowers ; the city shone 
With flags of victory ; and none but now — 

As with no vaunting mien he wore his bays — 

Confessed him brave as good, and gave their praise. 






206 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

PEACE smiled anew ; the kingdom was at rest. 
Ah, happy Queen ! whom every matron's tongue 
Ran envious of, with such a consort blest 

As wins the heart of women, old and young ; 
So gallant, yet so good, the gentlest maid 
By this fair standard her own suitor weighed. 

I hold the perfect mating of two souls, 
Through wedded love, to be the sum of bliss. 

When Earth, this fruit that ripens as it rolls 

In sunlight, grows more prime, lives will not miss 

Their counterparts, and each shall find its own ; 

But now with what blind chance the lots are thrown ! 

And because Love sets with a rising tide 
Along the drift where much has gone before 

One holds of worth, — we lavish first, beside, 
Heart, honors, regal gifts, and love the more 

When yielding most, — for this the Queen's love knew 

No slack, but still its current deeper grew. 

And because Love is free, and follows not 
On gratitude, nor comes from what is given 

So much as on the giving ; and, I wot, 
Partly because it irks one to have thriven 

At hands which seem the weaker, and should thrive 

While those of him they cling to lift and strive ; ' 

And partly that his marriage seemed a height 
Which raised him from the passions of our kind, 

Nor with his own intent ; and that, despite 
Its clear repose, he somehow longed to find 

The lower world, starve, hunger, and be fed 

With joy and sorrow, sweet and bitter bread, — 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 207 

For all these things the Prince loved not the Queen 
With that sufficience which alone can take 

A rapture in itself and rest serene ; 

Yet knew not what his life lacked that should make 

It worth to live, — our custom has such art 

To dull the craving of the famished heart, — 

Perchance had never known it, but a light 

Flashed in his path and lit a fiery train 
About him ; else, day following day, and night 

By night, through years his soul had felt no pain, 
No triumph, but had shared the common lull, 
Been all it seemed, as blameless, true, and dull. 

And yet in one fair woman beauty, youth, 

And passion were united, and her love 
Was framed about his likeness. Some, forsooth, ♦ 

May shift their changeful worship as they rove, 
Or clowns or princes ; but her fancy slept, 
Dreaming upon that picture which she kept, 

A secret pain and pleasance. With what strife 
Men sought her love she wist not, for the prize 

Was not for them. She lived a duteous life. 
'T was something thus to let her constant eyes 

Feed on his face, to hear his name, — to know 

He lived, had walked those paths, had loved her so. 

There is a painting of a youthful monk 

Who sits within a walled and cloistered nook, 

His breviary closed, and listens, sunk 
In day-dreams, to a viol, — with a look 

Of strange regret fixed on two pairing doves, 

Who find their fate and simple natural loves. 



208 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

Yet bonds of gold, linked hands, and chancel vows, 
Even spousal beds, do not a marriage make. 

When such things chain the soul that never knows 
Love's mating, little vantage shall it take, 

Wandering with alien feet throughout the wide, 

Hushed temple, over those who pine outside ! 

So this young wife forecast her horoscope 
And found its wedded lines of little worth, 

Yet owned not to herself what hopeless hope 
Or dumb intent made green her spot of earth. 

So passed three changeless years, as such years be ; 

At last the old lord died, and left her free, 

The mistress of his rank and broad estate, 
In honor of her constancy. Then life 

Rushed back ; she saw her beauty grown more great, 
Ripened as if a summer field were rife 

With grain, the harvester neglectful, since 

Hers was no mean desire that sought a prince, 

Eager to make his birth and bloom her own, 
Or reign a wanton favorite. But she thought, 

" I might have loved and clung to him alone, 
Am fairer than he knew me ; yet, if aught 

Of rarity make sweet my hair and lips, 

What sweetness hath the honey that none sips ? " 

After her time of mourning she grew bold, 
And said, " Once let me look upon his face ! 

The Queen will take no harm if I behold 
What all the world can see." She left her place, 

And with a kinsman, at a palace rout, 

Followed the long line passing in and out 






209 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

Before the dais. The Prince's eyes and hers 
Met like the clouds that lighten. In a breath 

Swift memory flamed between them, as, when stirs 
No wind, and the dark sky is still as death, 

One lance of living fire is hurled across ; 

Then comes the whirlwind, and the forests toss ! 



Yet as she bent her beauteous shoulders down, 
And heard the kindly greeting of the Queen, 

He spoke such words as one who wears a crown 
Speaks, and no more ; and with a low, proud mien 

She murmured answer, from the presence past 

Lightly, nor any look behind her cast. 

In that first glimpse each read the other's heart ; 

But not without a summoning of himself 
To judgment did the Prince forever part 

From truth and fealty. As he pondered, still 
With stronger voice Love claimed a debt unpaid, 
And youth's hot pulses would not be gainsaid. 

She with a fierce, full gladness saw again 
Their broken threads of love begin to spin 

In one red strand, and let it guide her then, 
Whether it led to danger or to sin ; 

And shortly, on the morrow, took the road, 

And gained her country-seat, and there abode. 

The Prince, a bright near morning, mounted horse, 
Garbed for the hunt, and left the town, and through 

The deep-pathed wood rode on a wayward course, 
With a set purpose in him, — though he knew 

It not, and let his steed go where it might ; 

For this sole thought pursued him since that night : — 

N 



2io THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 

" What recompense for me who have not sown 
The seed and reaped the harvest of my days ? 

Youth passes like a bird ; but love alone 

Makes wealth of riches, power of rank, men's praise 

A goodly sound. Of such things have I aught ? 

There is a foil to make their substance naught. 

" What were his gifts who made each lovely thing, 
Yet lacked the gift of love ? or what the fame 

Of some dwarfed poet, whose numbers still we sing, 
If no fair woman trembled where he came ? 

The beggar dying in ditch is not accurst 

If love once crowned him ! Fate may do her worst. 

" For Age that erst has drawn the wine of love 
And filled its birth-cup to the jewelled brim, 

And, while it sparkled, held it high above, 

And drained it slowly, swiftly, — then, though dim 

Grow the blurred eyes, and comfort and desire 

Are but the ashes of their ancient fire, 

" Yet will it bide its exit in content, 

Remembering the past, nor grudge, with hoar 

And ravenous look, the youth we have not spent. 
No earthly sting has power to harm it more ; 

It lived and loved, was young, and now is old, 

And life is rounded like a ring of gold." 

Thereat with sudden rein the Prince wheeled horse, 
And sought a pathway that he long had known 

Yet shunned till now. Beside a water-course 
It led him for a winding league and lone ; 

Then made a rugged circuit, — where the brook 

Down a steep ledge of rock its plunges took, — 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 2 \\ 

And ended at an open sward, the same 

Against whose edge the leaping cataract fell 

From those high cliffs. Five years ago he came 
To bury youth and love within that dell, 

And, as again he reached the spot he sought, 

Truth, fame, his child, the Queen, were all as naught. 

Dismounting then, he pushed afoot, between 

The alder saplings, to the outer wood, 
The grounds, the garden-walks, and found, unseen, 

A private door, nor tarried till he stood 
Within the threshold of my Lady's room, — 
A shadowed nook, all stillness and perfume. 

Jasmine and briony the lattice climbed, 
The rose and honeysuckle trailed above ; 

'T was such an hour as poets oft have rhymed, 
And such a chamber as all lovers love. 

He found her there, and at her footstool knelt. 

Each in the other's fancies had so dwelt, 

That, as one sees for days a sweet strange face, 
Until at night in dreams he does caress 

Its owner, and next morning in some place 
Meets her, and wonders if she too can guess 

How near and known he thinks her, — in this wise 

They read one story in each other's eyes. 

Her thick hair falling from its lilies hid 

Their first long kiss of passion and content. 

He heard her soft, glad murmur, as she slid 
Within his hold, and 'gainst his bosom leant, 

Whispering : " At last ! at last ! the years were sore.* 

" Their spite," he said, " shall do us wrong no more ! " 



212 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

What else, when mingled longings swell full-tide, 
And the heart's surges leap their bounds for aye, 

And fell the landmarks ? What but fate defied, 
Time clutched, and any future held at bay ? 

They recked not of the thorn, but seized the flower ; 

For all the sin, their joy was great that hour. 

And since, for all the joy, theirs was a sin 

That baned them with one bane ; since many men 

Had sought her love, but one alone could win 
That largess, with his blameless life till then 

Inviolate, — they bargained for love's sake 

No severance of their covert league to make. 

Yet, since nobility compelled them still, 

They pledged themselves for honor's sake to hold 

This hidden unto death ; at either's will 
To meet and part in secret ; to infold 

In their own hearts their trespass and delight, 

Nor look their love, but guard it day or night. , 



SO fell the blameless Prince. That day more late 
Than wont he reached the presence of the Queen, 
Deep in a palace chamber, where she sate 

Fondling his child. The sunset lit her mien, 
And made a saintly glory in her hair ; 
An awe came on him as he saw her there. 






THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 2 l$ 

And, because perfect love suspecteth not, 

She found no blot upon his brow. 'T was good 

To take a pleasure in her wedded lot, 

And watch the infant creeping where he stood ; 

And, as he bent his head, she little wist 

What kisses burned upon the lips she kissed. 

And he, still kind and wise in his decline, 
Seeing her trustful calm, had little heart 

To shake it., So his conduct gave no sign 
Of broken faith ; no slurring of his part 

Betrayed him to the courtiers or the wife. 

Perhaps a second spring-time in his life 

Waxed green, and fresh-bloomed love renewed again 
The joys that light our youth and leave our prime, 

And women found him tenderer, and men 
A blither, heartier comrade ; but, meantime, 

What hidden gladness made his visage bright 

They could not guess ; nor with what craft and sleight 

The paramours, in fealty to that Love 

Who laughs at locks and walks in hooded guise, 

Met here and there, yet made no careless move 
Nor bared their strategy to cunning eyes. 

And though, a portion of the winter year, 

The Queen's own summons brought her rival near 

The Prince, among the ladies of her train, 

Then, meeting face to face at morn and night, 

They were as strangers. If it was a pain 
To pass so coldly on, in love's despite, 

It was a joy to hear each other's tone, 

And keep the life-long secret still their own. 



214 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



Once having dipped their palms they drank full draught, 
And, like the desert-parched, alone at first 

Felt the delight of drinking, while they quaffed 
As if the waters could not slake their thirst ; 

That nicer sense unreached, when down we fling, 

And view the oasis around the spring. 

And, in that first bewilderment, perchance 

The Prince's lapse had caught some peering eye, 

But that his long repute, and maintenance 
Against each test, had put suspicion by. 

Now no one watched or doubted him. So long 

His inner strength had made his outwork strong, 

So long had smoothed his face, 't was light to take, 
From what had been his blamelessness, a mask. 

And still, for honor's and the country's sake, 
He set his hands to every noble task ; 

Held firmly yet his place among the great, 

Won by the sword and saviour of the state ; 

And as in war, so now in civic peace, 

He led the people on to higher things, 
And fostered Art and Song, and brought increase 

Of Knowledge, gave to Commerce broader wings, 
And with his action strengthened fourfold more 
The weight his precept in their councils bore. 

Then as the mellow years their fruitage brought, 
And fair strong children made secure the throne, 

He reared them wisely, needfully ; and sought 
Their good, the Queen's desire, and these alone. 

Himself so pure, that fathers bade their sons, 

" Observe the Prince, who every license shuns ; 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



215 



" Who, being most brave, is purest ! " Wedded wives, 
Happy themselves, the Queen still happiest found, 

And plighted maids still wished their lovers' lives 
Conformed to his. Such manhood wrapt him round, 

So winsome were his grace and knightly look, 

The dames at court their lesser spoil forsook, 

And wove a net to snare him, and their mood 
Grew warmer for his coldness ; and the hearts 

Of those most heartless beat with quicker blood, 
Foiled of his love ; yet, heedless of their arts, 

Courteous to all, he went his way content, 

Nor ever from his princely station bent. 

" What is this charm," they asked, " that makes him 
chaste 

Beyond all men ? " and wist not what they said. 
The common folk, — because the Prince had cased 

His limbs in silver mail, and on his head 
Worn snowy plumes, and, covered thus in white, 
Shone in the fiercest turmoil of the fight ; 

And mostly for the whiteness of his soul, 

Which seemed so virginal and all unblurred, — 

They called him the White Prince, and through the whole 
True land the name became a household word. 

" God save the Queen ! " the loyal people sung, 

" And the White Prince ! " came back from every 
tongue. 

So passed the stages of a glorious reign. 

The Queen in tranquil goodness reached her noon ; 
The Prince wore year by year his double chain ; 

His mistress kept her secret like the moon, 
That hides one half its splendor and its shade ; 
And newer times and men their entrance made. 






2i6 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

But did these two, who took their secret fill 

Of stolen waters, find the greater bliss 
They sought ? At first, to meet and part at will 

Was, for the peril's sake, a happiness ; 
Ay, even the sense of guilt made such delights 
More worth, as one we call the wisest writes. 

But with the later years Time brought about 
His famed revenges. Not that love grew cold, 

The lady never found a cause to doubt 

That with the Prince his passion kept its hold ; 

And while their loved are loyal to them yet, 

'T is not the wont of women to regret. 

Yet 't was her lot to live as one whose wealth 

Is in another's name ; to sigh at fate 
That hedged her from possession, save by stealth 

And trespass on the guileless Queen's estate ; 
To see her lover farthest when most near, 
Nor dare before the world to make him dear. 

To see her perfect beauty but a lure, 
That made men list to follow where she went, 

And kneel to woo the hand they deemed so pure, 
And hunger for her pitying mouth's consent ; 

Calling her hard, who was so gently made, 

Nor found delight in all their homage paid. 

Nor ever yet was woman's life complete 
Till at her breast the child of him she loved 

Made life and love one name. Though love be sweet, 
And passing sweet, till then its growth has proved 

In woman's paradise a sterile tree, 

Fruitless, though fair its leaves and blossoms be. 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 2 1? 

Meanwhile the Prince put on his own disguise, 
Holding it naught for what it kept secure, 

Nor wore it only in his comrades' eyes ; 
Beneath this cloak and seeming to be pure 

He felt the thing he seemed. For some brief space 

His conscience took the reflex of his face. 

But lastly through his heart there crept a sense 
Of falseness, like a worm about the core, 

Until he grew to loathe the long pretence 

Of blamelessness, and would the mask he wore 

By some swift judgment from his face were torn, 

So might the outer quell the inner scorn. 

Such self-contempt befell him, when the feast 

Rang with his praise, he blushed from nape to crown, 

And ground his teeth in silence, yet had ceased 
To bear it, crying, " Crush me not quite down, 

Who ask your scorn, as viler than you deem 

Your vilest, and am nothing that I seem ! " 

With such a cry his conscience riotous 

Had thrown, perchance, the burden on it laid, 

But love and pity held his voice ; and thus 
The paramours their constant penance made ; 

False to themselves, before the world a lie, 

Yet each for each had cast the whole world by. 

In those transcendent moments, when the fire 
Leapt up between them rapturous and bright, 

One incompleteness bred a wild desire 
To let the rest have token of its light ; 

So natural seemed their love, — so hapless, too, 

They might not make it glorious to view, 
10 



2i8 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

And speak their joy. 'T was all as they had come, 
They two, in some far wildwood wandering mazed, 

Upon a mighty cataract, whose foam 
And splendor ere that time had never dazed 

Men's eyes, nor any hearing save their own 

Could listen to its immemorial moan, 

And felt amid their triumph bitter pain 

That only for themselves was spread that sight. 

Oft, when his comrades sang a tender strain, 
And music, talk, and wine, outlasted night, 

Rose in the Prince's throat this sudden tide, 

" And I, — I also know where Love doth hide ! " 

Yet still the seals were ever on his mouth ; 

No heart, save one, his joy and dole might share. 
Passed on the winter's rain and summer's drouth ; 

Friends more and more, and lovers true, the pair, 
Though life its passion and its youth had spent, 
Still kept their faith as seasons came and went. 



ONE final hour, with stammering voice and halt, 
The Prince said : " Dear, for you, — whose only 
gain 
Was in your love that made such long default 

To self, — Heaven deems you sinless ! but a pain 
Is on my soul, and shadow of guilt threefold : 
First, in your fair life, fettered by my hold ; 



219 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

" Then in the ceaseless wrong I do the Queen, 
Who worships me, unknowing ; worse than all, 

To wear before the world this painted mien ! 
See to it : on my head some bolt will fall ! 

We have sweet memories of the good years past, 

Now let this secret league no longer last." 

So of her love and pure unselfishness 

She yielded at his word, yet fain would pray 

For one more tryst, one day of tenderness, 

Where first their lives were mated. Such a day 

Found them entwined together, met to part, 

Lips pressed to lips, and voiceless grief at heart. 

And last the Prince drew off his signet-stone, 
And gave it to his mistress, — as he rose 

To shut the book of happy moments gone, 
For so all earthly pleasures find a close, — 

Yet promised, at her time of utmost need 

And summons by that token, to take heed 



And do her will. " And from this hour," he said, 
" No woman's kiss save one my lips shall know." 

So left her pale and trembling there, and fled, 
Nor looked again, resolved it must be so ; 

But somewhere gained his horse, and through the wood 

Moved homeward with his thoughts, a phantom brood 

That turned the long past over in his mind, 

Poising its good and evil, while a haze 
Gathered around him, of that sombre kind 

Which follows from a place where many days 
Have seen us go and come ; and even if sore 
Has been our sojourn there, we feel the more 



220 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

That parting is a sorrow, — though we part 
With those who loved us not, or go forlorn 

From pain that ate its canker in the heart ; 

But when we leave the paths where Love has borne 

His garlands to us, Pleasure poured her wine, 

Where life was wholly precious and divine, 

Then go we forth as exiles. In such wise 

The loath, wan Prince his homeward journey made. 

Brooding, and marked not with his downcast eyes 
The shadow that within the coppice shade 

Sank darker still ; but at the horse's gait 

Kept slowly on, and rode to meet his fate. 

For from the west a silent gathering drew, 

And hid the summer sky, and brought swift night 

Across that shire, and went devouring through 
The strong old forest, stronger in its might. 

With the first sudden crash the Prince's steed 

Took the long stride, and galloped at good need. 

The wild pace tallied with the rider's mood, 
And on he spurred, and even now had reached 

The storm that charged the borders of the wood, 
When one great whirlwind seized an oak which 
bleached 

Across his path, and felled it ; and its fall 

Bore down the Prince beneath it, horse and all. 

There lay he as he fell ; but the mad horse 

Plunged out in fright, and reared upon his feet, 

And for the city struck a headlong course, 
With clatter of hoof along the central street, 

Nor halted till, thus masterless and late, 

Bleeding and torn, he reached the palace-gate. 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 2 2l 

Then rose a clamor and the tidings spread, 
And servitors and burghers thronged about, 

Crying, " The Prince's horse ! the Prince is dead ! " 
Till on the courser's track they sallied out, 

And came upon the fallen oak, and found 

The Prince sore maimed and senseless on the ground. 

Then wattling boughs, they raised him in their hold, 

And after that rough litter, and before, 
The people went in silence ; but there rolled 

A fiery vapor from the lights they bore, 
Like some red serpent huge along the road. 
Even thus they brought him back to his abode. 

There the pale Queen fell on him at the porch, 
Dabbling her robes in blood, and made ado, 

And over all his henchman held a torch, 

Until with reverent steps they took him through ; 

And the doors closed, and midnight from the domes 

Was sounded, and the people sought their homes. 

But on the morrow, like a dreadful bird, 
Flew swift the tidings of this sudden woe, 

And reached the Prince's paramour, who heard 
Aghast, as one who crieth loud, " The blow 

Is fallen ! I am the cause ! " — as one who saith, 

" Now let me die, whose hands have given death ! " 

So gat her to the town remorsefully, 
White with a mortal tremor and the sin 

Which sealed her mouth, and waited what might be, 
And watched the doors she dared not pass within. 

Alas, poor lady ! that lone week of fears 

Outlived the length of all her former years. 



222 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

Some days the Prince, upon the skirts of death, 

Spake not a word nor heard the Queen's one prayer, 

Nor turned his face, nor felt her loving breath, 
Nor saw his children when they gathered there, 

But rested dumb and motionless ; and so 

The Queen grew weak with watching and her woe, 

Till from his bed they bore her to her own 

A little. In the middle-tide of night, 
Thereafter, he awoke with moan on moan, 

And saw his death anigh, and said outright, 
" I had all things, but love was worth them all ! " 
Then sped they for the Queen, yet ere the call 

Reached her, he cried once more, " Too late ! too late ! " 
And at those words, before they led her in, 

Came the sure dart of him that lay in wait. 

The Prince was dead : what goodness and what sin 

Died with him were untold. At sunrise fell 

Across the capital his solemn knell. 

All respite it forbade, and joyance thence, 
To one for whom his passion till the last 

Wrought in the dying Prince. Her wan suspense 
Thus ended, a great fear upon her passed. 

" I was the cause ! " she moaned from day to day, 

" Now let me bear the penance as I may ! " 

So with her whole estate she sought and gained 

A refuge in a nunnery close at view, 
And there for months withdrew her, and remained 

In tears and prayers. Anon a sickness grew 
Upon her, and her face the ghost became 
Of what it was, the same and not the same. 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



223 



SO died the blameless Prince. The spacious land 
Was smitten in his death, and such a wail 
Arose, as when the midnight angel's hand 

Was laid on Egypt. Gossips ceased their tale, 
Or whispered of his goodness, and were mute ; 
No sound was heard of viol or of lute ; 

The streets were hung with black ; the artisan 
Forsook his forge ; the artist dropped his brush ; 

The tradesmen closed their windows. Man with man 
Struck hands together in the first deep hush 

Of grief ; or, where the dead Prince lay in state, 

Spoke of his life, so blameless, pure, and great. 

But when, within the dark cathedral vault, 
They joined his ashes to the dust of kings, 

No royal pomp was shown ; for Death made halt 
Above the palace yet, on dusky wings, 

Waiting to gain the Queen, who still was prone 

Along the couch where haply she had thrown, 

At knowledge of the end, her stricken frame. 

With visage pale as in a mortal swound 
She stayed, nor slept, nor wept, till, weeping, came 

The crown-prince and besought her to look round 
And speak unto her children. Then she said: 
" Hereto no grief has fallen on our head ; 

" Now all our earthly portion in one mass 
Is loosed against us with this single stroke ! 

Yet we are Queen, and still must live, — alas ! — 
As he would have us." Even as she spoke 

She wept, and mended thence, yet bore the face 

Of one whose fate delays but for a space. 



224 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



Thenceforth she worked and waited till the call 
Of Heaven should close the labor and the pause. 

Months, seasons passed, yet evermore a pall 

Hung round the court. The sorrow and the cause 

Were always with her ; after things were tame 

Beside the shadow of his deeds and fame. 

Her palaces and parks seemed desolate ; 

No joy was left in sky or street or field ; 
No age, she thought, would see the Prince's mate : 

What matchless hand his knightly sword could wield i 
The world had lost, this royal widow said, 
Its one bright jewel when the Prince was dead. 

So that his fame might be enduring there 

For many a reign, and sacred through the land, 

She gathered bronze and lazuli, and rare 

Swart marbles, while her cunning artists planned 

A stately cenotaph, — and bade them place 

Above its front the Prince's form and face, 

Sculptured, as if in life. But the pale Queen, 
Watching the work herself, would somewhat lure 

Her heart from plaining ; till, behind a screen, 
The tomb was finished, glorious and pure, 

Even like the Prince : and they proclaimed a day 

When the Queen's hand should draw its veil away. 

It chanced, the noon before, she bade them fetch 
Her equipage, and with her children rode 

Beyond the city walls, across a stretch 
Of the green open country, where abode 

Her subjects, happy in the field and grange, 

And with their griefs, that took a meaner range, 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 2 2$ 

Content. But as her joyless vision dwelt 
On beauty that so failed her wound to heal, 

She marked the Abbey's ancient pile, and felt 
A longing at its chapel-shrine to kneel, 

To pray, and think awhile on Heaven, — her one 

Sole passion, now the Prince had thither gone. 

She reached the gate, and through the vestibule 
The nuns, with reverence for the royal sorrow, 

Led to the shrine, and left her there to school 
Her heart for that sad pageant of the morrow. 

O, what deep sighs, what piteous tearful prayers, 

What golden grief-blanched hair strewn unawares ! 

Anon her coming through the place was sped, 
And when from that lone ecstasy she rose 

The saintly Abbess held her steps, and said : 
" God rests those, daughter, who in others' woes 

Forget their own ! In yonder corridor 

A sister-sufferer lies, and will no more 

" Pass through her door to catch the morning's breath, — 
A worldling once, the chamberlain's young wife, 

But now a pious novice, meet for death ; 
She prays to see your face once more in life." 

" She, too, is widowed," thought the Queen. Aloud 

She answered, " I will visit her," and bowed 

Her head, and, following, reached the room where lay 
One that had wronged her so ; and shrank to see 

That beauteous pallid face, so pined away, 
And the starved lips that murmured painfully, 

" I have a secret none but she may hear." 

At the Queen's sign, they two were left anear. 
10* o 



226 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

With that the dying rushed upon her speech, 
As one condemned, who gulps the poisoned wine 

Nor pauses, lest to see it stand at reach 
Were crueller still. " Madam, I sought a sign," 

She cried, " to know if God would have me make 

Confession, and to you ! now let me take 

" This meeting as the sign, and speak, and die ! " 
" Child," said the Queen, " your years are yet too few. 

See how I live, — and yet what sorrows lie 
About my heart." — "I know, — the world spake true! 

You too have loved him ; ay, he seems to stand 

Between us ! Queen, you had the Prince's hand, 

" But not his love ! " Across the good Queen's brow 
A flame of anger reddened, as when one 

Meets unprepared a swift and ruthless blow, 
But instant paled to pity, as she thought, 

" She wanders : 't is the fever at her brain ! " 

And looked her thought. The other cried again : 

" Yes ! I am ill of body and soul indeed, 

Yet this was as I say. O, not for me 
Pity, from you who wear the widow's weed, 

Unknowing ! " — " Woman, whose could that love be, 
If not all mine ? " The other, with a moan, 
Rose in her bed ; the pillow, backward thrown, 

Was darkened with the torrent of her hair. 

" 'T was hers," she wailed, — " 't was hers who loved 
him best." 
Then tore apart her night-robe, and laid bare 

Her flesh, and lo ! against her poor white breast 
Close round her gloomed a shift of blackest serge, 
Fearful, concealed ! — "I might not sing his dirge," 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



227 



She said, " nor moan aloud and bring him shame, 
Nor haunt his tomb and cling about the grate, 

But this I fashioned when the tidings came 
That he was dead and I must expiate, 

Being left, our double sin ! " — In the Queen's heart, 

The tiger — that is prisoned at life's start 

In mortals, though perchance it never wakes 

From its mute sleep — began to rouse and crawl. 

Her lips grew white, and on her nostrils flakes 
Of wrath and loathing stood. " What, now, is all 

This wicked drivel ? " she cried ; " how dare they bring 

The Queen to listen to so foul a thing ? " 

" Queen ! I speak truth, — the truth, I say ! He fed 
Upon these lips, — this hair he loved to praise ! 

I held within these arms his bright fair head 

Pressed close, ah, close ! — Our lifetimes were the days 

We met, — the rest a void ! " — " Thou spectral Sin, 

Be silent ! or, if such a thing hath been, — 

" If this be not thy frenzy, — quick, the proof, 

Before I score the lie thy lips amid ! " 
She spoke so dread the other crouched aloof, 

Panting, but with gaunt hands somewhere undid 
A knot within her hair, and thence she took 
The signet-ring and passed it. The Queen's look 

Fell on it, and that moment the strong stay, 
Which held her from the instinct of her wrong, 

Broke, and therewith the whole device gave way, 
The grand ideal she had watched so long : 

As if a tower should fall, and on the plain 

Only a scathed and broken pile remain. 



228 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

But in its stead she would not measure yet 
The counter-chance, nor deem this sole attaint 

Made the Prince less than one in whom 't was set 
To prove him man. " I held him as a saint," 

She thought, " no other : — of all men alone 

My blameless one ! Too high my faith had flown : 

" So be it ! " With a sudden bitter scorn 

She said : " You were his plaything, then ! the food 

Wherewith he dulled what appetite is born, 
Of the gross kind, in men. His nobler mood 

You knew not ! How, shall I, — the fountain life 

Of yonder children, — his embosomed wife 

" Through all these years, — shall I, his Queen, for this 
Sin-smitten harlot's gage of an hour's shame, 

Misdoubt him ? " — " Yes, I was his harlot, — yes, 
God help me ! and had worn the loathly name 

Before the world, to have him in that guise ! " 

" Thou strumpet ! wilt thou have me of his prize 

" Rob Satan ? " cried the Queen, and one step moved. 

" Queen, if you loved him, save me from your bane, 
As something that was dear to him you loved ! " 

Then from beneath her serge she took the chain 
Which, long ago in that lone wood, the Prince 
Hung round her, — she had never loosed it since, — 

And gave therewith the face which, in its years 
Of youthful, sunniest grace, a limner drew ; 

And unsigned letters, darkened with her tears, 
Writ in the hand that hapless sovereign knew 

Too well ; — then told the whole, strange, secret tale, 

As if with Heaven that penance could avail, 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



229 



Or with the Queen, who heard as idols list 

The mad priest's cry, nor changed her place nor 
moaned, 

But, clutching those mute tokens of each tryst, 
Hid them about her. But the other groaned : 

" The picture, — let me see it ere I die, — 

Then take them all ! once, only ! " — At that cry 

The Queen strode forward with an awful stride, 
And seized the dying one, and bore her down, 

And rose her height, and said, " Thou shouldst have died 
Ere telling this, nor I have worn a crown 

To hear it told. I am of God accurst ! 

Of all his hated, may he smite thee first ! " 

With that wild speech she fled, nor looked behind, 
Hasting to get her from that fearful room, 

Past the meek nuns in wait. These did not find 

The sick one's eyes — yet staring through the gloom, 

While her hands fumbled at her heart, and Death 

Made her limbs quake, and combated her breath — 

More dreadful than the Queen's look, as she thence 
Made through the court, and reached her own array 

She knew not how, and clamored, "Bear me hence ! " 
And, even as her chariot moved away, 

High o'er the Abbey heard the minster toll 

Its doleful bell, as for a passing soul. 

Though midst her guardsmen, as they speeded back, 
The wont of royalty maintained her still, 

Where grief had been were ruin now and rack ! 
The firm earth reeled about, nor could her will 

Make it seem stable, while her soul went through 

Her wedded years in desperate review. 



230 THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

The air seemed full of lies ; the realm, unsound ; 

Her courtiers, knaves ; her maidens, good and fair, 
Most shameless bawds ; her children clung around 

Like asps, to sting her ; from the kingdom's heir, 
Shuddering, she turned her face, — his features took 
A shining horror from his father's look. 

Along her city streets the thrifty crowd, 

As the Queen passed, their loving reverence made. 

" 'T is false ! they love me not ! " she cried aloud ; 
So flung her from her chariot, and forbade 

All words, but waved her ladies back, and gained 

Her inmost room, and by herself remained. 

" We have been alone these years, and knew it not," 
She said ; " now let us on the knowledge thrive ! " 

So closed the doors, and all things else forgot 
Than her own misery. " I cannot live 

And bear this death," she said, " nor die, the more 

To meet him, — and that woman gone before ! " 

Thus with herself she writhed, while midnight gloomed, 

As lone as any outcast of us all ; 
And once, without a purpose, as the doomed 

Stare round and count the shadows on the wall, 
Unclasped a poet's book which near her lay, 
And turned its pages in that witless way, 

And read the song, some wise, sad man had made, 
With bitter frost about his doubting heart. 

" What is this life," it plained, " what masquerade 
Of which ye all are witnesses and part ? 

' T is but a foolish, smiling face to wear 

Above your mortal sorrow, chill despair ; 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 



231 



" To mock your comrades and yourselves with mirth 
That feeds the care ye cannot drive away ; 

To vaunt of health, yet hide beneath the girth 
Impuissance, fell sickness, slow decay ; 

To cloak defeat, and with the rich, the great, 

Applaud their fairer fortunes as their mate ; 

" To brave the sudden woe, the secret loss, 

Though but to-morrow brings the open shame ; 

To pay the tribute of your caste, and toss 
Your last to him that 's richer save in name ; 

To judge your peers, and give the doleful meed 

To crime that 's white beside your hidden deed ; 

" To whisper love, where of true love is none, — 
Desire, where lust is dead ; to live unchaste, 

And wear the priestly cincture ; — last, to own, 

When the morn's dream is gone and noontide waste, 

Some fate still kept ye from your purpose sweet, 

Down strange, circuitous paths it drew your feet ! " 

Thus far she read, and, " Let me read no more," 
She clamored, " since the scales have left mine eye* 

And freed the dreadful gift I lacked before ! 
We are but puppets, in whatever guise 

They clothe us, to whatever tune we move ; 

Albeit we prate of duty, dream of love. 

" Let me, too, play the common part, and wean 
My life from hope, and look beneath the mask 

To read the masker ! I, who was a Queen, 
And like a hireling thought to 'scape my task ! 

For some few seasons left this heart is schooled : 

Yet, — had it been a little longer fooled, — 



232 



THE BLAMELESS PRLNCE. 



" O God ! " And from her seat she bowed her down. 

The gentle sovereign of that spacious land 
Lay prone beneath the bauble of her crown, 

Nor heard all night her whispering ladies stand 
Outside the portal. Greatly, in the morn, 
They marvelled at her visage wan and worn. 



BUT when the sun was high, the populace 
By every gateway filled the roads, and sought 
The mai'tial plain, within whose central space 

That wonder of the Prince's tomb was wrought. 
Thereto from out the nearer land there passed 
The mingled folk, an eager throng and vast ; 

Knights, commons, men and women, young and old, 
The present and the promise of the realm. 

Anon the coming of the Queen was told, 

And mounted guards, with sable plumes at helm, 

Made through the middle, like a reaper's swath, 

A straight, wide roadway for the sovereign's path. 

Then rose the murmurous sound of her advance, 
And, with the crown-prince, and her other brood 

Led close behind, she came. Her countenance 
Moved not to right nor left, until she stood 

Before the tomb ; yet those, who took the breath 

That clothed her progress, felt a waft of death. 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 



233 



O noble martyr ! queenliest intent ! 

Strong human soul, that holds to pride through all 
Ah me ! with what fierce heavings in them pent 

The brave complete their work, whate'er befall ! 
Upon her front the people only read 
Pale grief that clung forever to the dead. 

How should they know she trod the royal stand, 
And took within her hold the silken line, 

As, while the headsman waits, one lays her hand 
Upon the scarf that slays her by a sign ? 

With one great pang she drew the veil, and lo ! 

The work was dazzling in the noonday glow. 

There shone the Prince's image, golden, high, 

Installed forever in the people's sight. 
" Alas ! " they cried, " too good, too fair to die ! " 

But at the foot the Queen had bid them write 
Her consort's goodness, and his glory-roll, 
Yet knew not they had carved upon the scroll 

That last assurance of his stainless heart, — 

For such they deemed his words who heard them fall,— 

" Of all great things this Prince achieved his part, 
Yet wedded Love to him was worth them all." 

Thus read the Queen : till now, her injured soul 

Of its forlornness had not felt the whole. 

Now all her heart was broken. There she fell, 

And to the skies her lofty spirit fled. 
The wrong of those mute words had smitten well. 

A cry went up : " The Queen ! the Queen is dead ! 
O regal heart that would not reign alone ! 
O fatal sorrow ! O the empty throne ! " 



234 



THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. 

Her people made her beauteous relics room 
Within the chamber where her consort slept. 

There rest they side by side. Around the tomb 
A thousand matrons solemn vigil kept. 

Long ages told the story of her reign, 

And sang the nuptial love that had no stain. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 





I. 

SONGS AND STUDIES. 



SURF. 

SPLENDORS of morning the billow-crests brighten, 
Lighting and luring them on to the land, — 
Far-away waves where the wan vessels whiten, 
Blue rollers breaking in surf where we stand. 
Curved like the necks of a legion of horses, 

Each with his froth-gilded mane flowing free, 
Hither they speed in perpetual courses, 
Bearing thy riches, O beautiful sea ! 

Strong with the striving of yesterday's surges, 

Lashed by the wanton winds leagues from the shore, 
Each, driven fast by its follower, urges 

Fearlessly those that are fleeting before ; 
How they leap over the ridges we walk on, 

Flinging us gifts from the depths of the sea, — 
Silvery fish for the foam-haunting falcon, 

Palm-weed and pearls for my darling and me ! 



238 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Light falls her foot where the rift follows after, 

Finer her hair than your feathery spray, 
Sweeter her voice than your infinite laughter, — 

Hist ! ye wild couriers, list to my lay ! 
Deep in the chambers of grottos auroral 

Morn laves her jewels and bends her red knee ; 
Thence to my dear one your amber and coral 

Bring for her dowry, O beautiful sea ! 



TOUJOURS AMOUR. 

PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
At what age does Love begin ? 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen, 
But a miracle of sweets, 
Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
Show the little archer there, 
Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
"When didst learn a heart to win ? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 

" Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, 
" I can't tell you if I try. 
'T is so long I can't remember : 
Ask some younger lass than I ! " 

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
When does hoary Love expire, 
When do frosts put out the fire ? 
Can its embers burn below 
All that chill December snow ? 



LAURA, MY DARLING. 239 

Care you still soft hands to press, 
Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
When does Love give up the chase ? 
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 

" Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
" Youth may pass and strength may die ; 
But of Love I can't foretoken : 
Ask some older sage than I ! " 



LAURA, MY DARLING. 

LAURA, my darling, the roses have blushed 
At the kiss of the dew, and our chamber is hushed ; 
Our murmuring babe to your bosom has clung, 
And hears in his slumber the song that you sung ; 
I watch you asleep with your arms round him thrown, 
Your links of dark tresses wound in with his own, 
And the wife is as dear as the gentle young bride 
Of the hour when you first, darling, came to my side. 

Laura, my darling, our sail down the stream 
Of Youth's summers and winters has been like a dream ; 
Years have but rounded your womanly grace, 
And added their spell to the light of your face ; 
Your soul is the same as though part were not given 
To the two, like yourself, sent to bless me from heaven, — 
Dear lives, springing forth from the life of my life, 
To make you more near, darling, mother and wife ! 

Laura, my darling, there 's hazel-eyed Fred, 
Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed, 



240 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And little King Arthur, whose curls have the art 
Of winding their tendrils so close round my heart ; 
Yet fairer than either, and dearer than both, 
Is the true one who gave me in girlhood her troth : 
For we, when we mated for evil and good, — 
What were we, darling, but babes in the wood ? 

Laura, my darling, the years which have flown 
Brought few of the prizes I pledged to my own. 
I said that no sorrow should roughen her way, — 
Her life should be cloudless, a long summer's day. 
Shadow and sunshine, thistles and flowers, 
Which of the two, darling, most have been ours ? 
Yet to-night, by the smile on your lips, I can see 
You are dreaming of me, darling, dreaming of me. 

Laura, my darling, the stars, that we knew 

In our youth, are still shining as tender and true ; 

The midnight is sounding its slumberous bell, 

And I come to the one who has loved me so well. 

Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is done : 

What shall dissever our lives which are one ? 

Say, while the rose listens under her breath, 

" Naught until death, darling, naught until death ! " 



THE TRYST. 

SLEEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine, 
In some ambrosial lovers' shrine. 
My lips against thy lips were pressed, 
And all our passion was confessed ; 
So near and dear my darling seemed, 
I knew not that I only dreamed. 



VIOLET EYES. 

Waking, this mid and moonlit night, 
I clasp thee close by lover's right. 
Thou fearest not my warm embrace, 
And yet, so like the dream thy face 
And kisses, I but half partake 
The joy, and know not if I wake. 



VIOLET EYES. 

ONE can never quite forget 
Eyes like yours, May Margaret, 
Eyes of dewy violet ! 
Nothing like them, Margaret, 
Save the blossoms newly born 
Of the May and of the Morn. 

Oft my memory wanders back 

To those burning eyes and black, 

Whose heat-lightnings once could move 

Me to passion, not to love ; 

Longer in my heart of hearts 

Linger those disguised arts, 

Which, betimes, a hazel pair 

Used upon me unaware ; 

And the wise and tender gray — 

Eyes wherewith a saint might pray — 

Speak of pledges that endure 

And of faith and vigils pure ; 

But for him who fain would know 

All the fire the first can show, 

All the art, or friendship fast, 

Of the second and the last, — 

II P 



24I 



242 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And would gain a subtler worth, 

Part of Heaven, part of Earth, — 

He these mingled rays can find 

In but one immortal kind : 

In those eyes of violet, 

In your eyes, May Margaret ! 



THE DOORSTEP. 

'"T^HE conference-meeting through at last, 
J- We boys around the vestry waited 
To see the girls come tripping past 
Like snow-birds willing to be mated. 

Not braver he that leaps the wall 

By level musket-flashes litten, 
Than I, that stepped before them all 

Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

But no, she blushed and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 

Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 

'T was nothing worth a song or story ; 

Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, 
Her face with youth and health was beaming. 



THE DOORSTEP. 243 

The little hand outside her muff, — 

O sculptor, if you could but mould it ! — 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone, — 

'T was love and fear and triumph blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, were almost home ; 

Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, 
We heard the voices nearer come, 

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood 

And with a " Thank you, Ned," dissembled, 

But yet I knew she understood 

With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead, 

The moon was slyly peeping through it, 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

" Come, now or never ! do it ! do it I " 

My lips till then had only known 

The kiss of mother and of sister, 
But somehow, full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her ! 

Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, 

listless woman, weary lover ! 

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 

1 'd give — but who can live youth over ? 



244 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



FUIT ILIUM. 

ONE by one they died, — 
Last of all their race ; 
Nothing left but pride, 

Lace, and buckled hose. 
Their quietus made, 

On their dwelling-place 
Ruthless hands are laid : 

Down the old house goes ! 

See the ancient manse 
Meet its fate at last ! 
Time, in his advance, 

Age nor honor knows ; 
Axe and broadaxe fall, 

Lopping off the Past : 
Hit with bar and maul, 

Down the old house goes ! 

Sevenscore years it stood : 

Yes, they built it well, 
Though they built of wood, 
When that house arose. 
For its cross-beams square 

Oak and walnut fell ; 
Little worse for wear, 

Down the old house goes ! 

Rending board and plank, 
Men with crowbars ply, 
Opening fissures dank, 

Striking deadly blows. 



FUIT ILIUM. 

From the gabled roof 

How the shingles fly ! 
Keep you here aloof, — 

Down the old house goes ! 

Holding still its place, 

There the chimney stands, 
Stanch from top to base, 
Frowning on its foes. 
Heave apart the stones, 
Burst its iron bands ! 
How it shakes and groans ! 
Down the old house goes ! 

Round the mantel-piece 

Glisten Scripture tiles ; 
Henceforth they shall cease 
Painting Egypt's woes, 
Painting David's fight, 

Fair Bathsheba's smiles, 
Blinded Samson's might, — 
Down the old house goes ! 

On these oaken floors 

High-shoed ladies trod ; 
Through those panelled doors 

Trailed their furbelows : 
Long their day has ceased ; 

Now, beneath the sod, 
With the worms they feast, — 
Down the old house goes ! 

Many a bride has stood 
In yon spacious room ; 



245 



246 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Here her hand was wooed 
Underneath the rose ; 

O'er that sill the dead 

Reached the family tomb : 

All, that were, have fled, — 
Down the old house goes ! 



Once, in yonder hall, 

Washington, they say, 
Led the New-Year's ball, 

Stateliest of beaux. 
O that minuet, 

Maids and matrons gay ! 
Are there such sights yet ? 

Down the old house goes ! 

British troopers came 

Ere another year, 
With their coats aflame, 

Mincing on their toes ; 
Daughters of the house 

Gave them haughty cheer, 
Laughed to scorn their vows, — 
Down the old house goes ! 

Doorway high the box 

In the grass-plot spreads ; 
It has borne its locks 

Through a thousand snows ; 
In an evil day, 

From those garden-beds 
Now 't is hacked away, — 

Down the old house goes ! 



COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 

Lo ! the sycamores, 

Scathed and scrawny mates, 
At the mansion doors 

Shiver, full of woes ; 
With its life they grew, 

Guarded well its gates ; 
Now their task is through, — 
Down the old house goes ! 

On this honored site 

Modern trade will build, — 
What unseemly fright 

Heaven only knows ! 
Something peaked and high, 

Smacking of the guild : 
Let us heave a sigh, — 

Down the old house goes ! 



COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 

T N January, when down the dairy 
■*- The cream and clabber freeze, 
When snow-drifts cover the fences over, 

We farmers take our ease. 
At night we rig the team, 

And bring the cutter out ; 
Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, 

And heap the furs about. 



247 



248 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, 

And sleighs at least a score ; 
There John and Molly, behind, are jolly, ^- 

Nell rides with me, before. 
All down the village street 

We range us in a row : 
Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 

And over the crispy snow ! 

The windows glisten, the old folks listen 

To hear the sleigh-bells pass ; 
The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, 

The road is smooth as glass. 
Our muffled faces burn, 

The clear north-wind blows cold, 
The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, 

Each in her lover's hold. 

Through bridge and gateway we 're shooting straightway, 

Their tollman was too slow ! j 
He '11 listen after our song and laughter 

As over the hill we go. 
The girls cry, " Fie ! for shame ! " 

Their cheeks and lips are red, 
And so, with kisses, kisses, kisses, 

They take the toll instead. 

Still follow, follow ! across the hollow 

The tavern fronts the road. 
Whoa, now ! all steady ! the host is ready, — • 

He knows the country mode ! 
The irons are in the fire, 

The hissing flip is got ; 
So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it, 

And sip it while 't is hot. 



COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 249 

Push back the tables, and from the stables 

Bring Tom, the fiddler, in ; 
All take your places, and make your graces, 

And let the dance begin. 
The girls are beating time 

To hear the music sound ; 
Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, 

And swing your partners round. 

Last couple toward the left ! all forward ! 

Cotillons through, let 's wheel : 
First tune the fiddle, then down the middle 

In old Virginia Reel. 
Play Money Musk to close, 

Then take the " long chasse*," 
While in to supper, supper, supper, 

The landlord leads the way. 

The bells are ringing, the ostlers bringing 

The cutters up anew ; 
The beasts are neighing ; too long we 're staying, 

The night is half-way through. 
Wrap close the buffalo-robes, 

We 're all aboard once more ; 
Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 

Away from the tavern-door 

So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, 

And swiftly homeward glide. 
What midnight splendor ! how warm and tender 

The maiden by your side ! 
The sleighs drop far apart, 

Her words are soft and low ; 
Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 

'T is safe to tell her so. 

IT* 



250 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



PAN IN WALL STREET. 

A. D. 1867. 

JUST where the Treasury's marble front 
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations ; 
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 

To throng for trade and last quotations ; 
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 

Outrival, in the ears of people, 
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled 
From Trinity's undaunted steeple, — 

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain 

Sound high above the modern clamor, 
Above the cries of greed and gain, 

The curbstone war, the auction's hammer ; 
And swift, on Music's misty ways, 

It led, from all this strife for millions, 
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days 

Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 

And as it stilled the multitude, 

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
I saw the minstrel, where he stood 

At ease against a Doric pillar : 
One hand a droning organ played, 

The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned 
Like those of old) to lips that made 

The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 



PAN IN WALL STREET. 25 I 

'T was Pan himself had wandered here 

A-strolling through this sordid city, 
And piping to the civic ear 

The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! 
The demigod had crossed the seas, — 

From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, 
And Syracusan times, — to these 

Far shores and twenty centuries later. 

A ragged cap was on his head ; 

But — hidden thus — there was no doubting 
That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, 

His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting ; 
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 

Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, 
And trousers, patched of divers hues, 

Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. 

He filled the quivering reeds with sound, 

And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, 
And with his goat's-eyes looked around 

Where'er the passing current drifted ; 
And soon, as on Trinacrian hills 

The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, 
Even now the tradesmen from their tills, 

With clerks and porters, crowded near him. 

The bulls and bears together drew 

From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, 
As erst, if pastorals be true, 

Came beasts from every wooded valley ; 
The random passers stayed to list, — 

A boxer /Egon, rough and merry, 
A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst 

With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 



252 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 

In tattered cloak of army pattern, 
And Galatea joined the throng, — 

A blowsy, apple-vending slattern ; 
While old Silenus staggered out 

From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, 
And bade the piper, with a shout, 

To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 

A newsboy and a peanut-girl 

Like little Fauns began to caper : 
His hair was all in tangled curl, 

Her tawny legs were bare and taper ; 
And still the gathering larger grew, 

And gave its pence and crowded nigher, 
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 

His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 

O heart of Nature, beating still 

With throbs her vernal passion taught her, - 
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 

Or by the Arethusan water ! 
New forms may fold the speech, new lands 

Arise within these ocean-portals, 
But Music waves eternal wands, — 

Enchantress of the souls of mortals! 

So thought I, — but among us trod 

A man in blue, with legal baton, 
And scoffed the vagrant demigod, 

And pushed him from the step I sat on. 
Doubting I mused upon the cry, 

" Great Pan is dead ! " — and all the people 
Went on their ways : — and clear and high 

The quarter sounded from the steeple. 



ANONYM A. 



ANONYMA. 



HER CONFESSION. 



253 



T F I had been a rich man's girl, 
J- With my tawny hair, and this wanton art 
Of lifting my eyes in the evening whirl 

And looking into another's heart; 
Had love been mine at birth, and friends 

Caressing and guarding me night and day, 
With doctors to watch my finger-ends, 
And a parson to teach me how to pray ; 

If I had been reared as others have, — 

With but a tithe of these looks, which came 
From my reckless mother, now in her grave, 

And the father who grudged me even his name, 
Why, I should have station and tender care, 

Should ruin men in the high-bred way, 
Passionless, smiling at their despair, 

And marrying where my vantage lay. 

As it is, I must have love and dress, 

Jewelled trinkets, and costly food, 
For I was born for plenteousness, 

Music and flowers, and all things good._ 
To that same father I owe some thanks, 

Seeing, at least, that blood will tell, 
And keep me ever above the ranks 

Of those who wallow where they fell. 



254 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



True, there are weary, weary days 

In the great hotel where I make my lair, 
Where I meet the men with their brutal praise, 

Or answer the women, stare for stare. 
'T is an even fight, and I '11 carry it through, — 

Pit them against me, great and small : 
I grant no quarter, nor would I sue 

For grace to the softest of them all. 

I cannot remember half the men 

Whose sin has tangled them in my toils, — 
All are alike before me then, 

Part of my easily conquered spoils : 
Tall or short, and dark or fair, 

Rich or famous, haughty or fond, 
There are few, I find, who will not forswear 

The lover's oath and the wedding bond. 

Fools ! what is it that drives them on 

With their perjured lips on poison fed ; 
Vain of themselves, and cruel as stone, 

How should they be so cheaply led ? 
Surely they know me as I am, — 

Only a cuckoo, at the best, 
Watching, careless of hate and shame, 

To crouch myself in another's nest. 

But the women, — how they flutter and flout, 

The stupid, terribly virtuous wives, 
If I but chance to move about 

Or enter within their bustling hives ! 
Buz ! buz ! in the scandalous gatherings, 

When a strange queen lights amid their throng, 
And their tongues have a thousand angry stings 

To send her travelling, right or wrong. 



SPOKEN AT SEA. 

Well, the earth is wide and open to all, 

And money and men are everywhere, 
And, as I roam, 't will ill befall 

If I do not gain my lawful share : 
One drops off, but another will come 

With as light a head and heavy a purse ; 
So long as I have the world for a home, 

I' 11 take my fortune, better or worse ! 



SPOKEN AT SEA. 

THE LOG-BOOK OF THE STEAMSHIP VIRGINIA. 

T^WELVE hundred miles and more 
■*- From the stormy English shore, 
All aright, the seventh night, 
On her course our vessel bore. 
Her lantern shone ahead, 
And the green lamp and the red 
To starboard and to larboard 
Shot their light. 

Close on the midnight call 
What a mist began to fall, 

And to hide the ocean wide, 
And to wrap us in a pall ! 
Beneath its folds we past : 
Hidden were shroud and mast, 

And faces, in near places 
Side by side. 



255 



256 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Sudden there also fell 
A summons like a knell : 

Every ear the words could hear, — 
Whence spoken, who could tell ? 
" What ship is this ? where bound ? " 
Gods, what a dismal sound ! 

A stranger, and in danger, 
Sailing near. 

" The Virginia, on her route 
From the Mersey, seven days out ; 

Fore and aft, our trusty craft 
Carries a thousand souls, about." 
" All these souls may travel still, 
Westward bound, if so they will ; 

Bodies rather, I would gather ! " 
Loud he laughed. 

" Who is 't that hails so rude, 
And for what this idle mood? 

Words like these, on midnight seas, 
Bode no friend nor fortune good ! " 
" Care not to know my name, 
But whence I lastly came, 

At leisure, for my pleasure, 
Ask the breeze. 

" To the people of your port 
Bear a message of this sort : 

Say, I haste unto the West, 
A sharer of their sport. 
Let them sweep the houses clean : 
Their fathers did, I ween, 

When hearing of my nearing 
As a guest ! 



THE DUKE'S EXEQUY. 2 $? 

" As by Halifax ye sail 

And the steamship England hail, 

Of me, then, bespeak her men ; 
She took my latest mail, — 
'T was somewhere near this spot : 
Doubtless they 've not forgot. 

Remind them (if you find them !) 
Once again. 

" Yet that you all may know 
Who is 't that hailed you so, 

(Slow he saith, and under breath,) 
I leave my sign below ! " 
Then from our crowded hold 
A dreadful cry uprolled, 

Unbroken, and the token, — 
It was Death. 



THE DUKE'S EXEQUY. 

ARRAS, A. D. 1404. 

CLOTHED in sable, crowned with gold, 
All his wars and councils ended, 
Philip lay, surnamed The Bold : 
Passing-bell his quittance tolled, 
And the chant of priests ascended. 

Mailed knights and archers stand, 
Thronging* in the church of Arras ; 
Nevermore at his command 
Shall they scour the Netherland, 
Nevermore the outlaws harass ; 



258 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Naught is left of his array- 
Save a barren territory ; 
Forty years of generous sway 
Sped his princely hoards away, 
Bartered all his gold for glory. 

Forth steps Flemish Margaret then, 
Striding toward the silent ashes ; 
And the eyes of armdd men 
Fill with startled wonder, when 
On the bier her girdle clashes ! 

Swift she drew it from her waist, 
And the purse and keys it carried 

On the ducal coffin placed ; 

Then with proud demeanor faced 
Sword and shield of him she married. 

" No encumbrance of the dead 
Must the living clog forever ; 

From thy debts and dues," she said, 
" From the liens of thy bed, 
We this day our line dissever. 

" From thy hand we gain release, 
Know all present by this token ! 
Let the dead repose in peace, 
Let the claims upon us cease 
When the ties that bound are broken. 

" Philip, we have loved thee long, 
But, in years of future splendor, 
Burgundy shall count among 
Bravest deeds of tale and song 
This, our widowhood's surrender." 



259 



THE HILLSIDE DOOR. 

Back the stately Duchess turned, 
While the priests and friars chanted, 
And the swinging incense burned : 
Thus by feudal rite was earned 
Greatness for a race undaunted. 



THE HILLSIDE DOOR. 

SOMETIMES within my hand 
A Spirit puts the silver key 
Of Fairyland : 
From the dark, barren heath he beckons me, 
Till by that hidden hillside door, 

Where bards have passed before, 
I seem to stand. 

The portal opens wide : 
In, through the wondrous, lighted halls, 
Voiceless I glide 
Where tinkling music magically falls, 
And fair in fountained gardens move 
The heroes, blest with love 
And glorified. 

Then by the meadows green, 
Down winding walks of elf and fay, 
I pass unseen : 
There rest the valiant chieftains wreathed with bay : 
Here maidens to their lovers cling, 
And happy minstrels sing, 
Praising their queen. 



2 6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

For where yon pillars are, 
And birds with tuneful voices call, 
There shines a star, — 
The crown she wears, the Fairy Queen of all ! 
Led to that inmost, wooded haunt 
By maidens ministrant, 
I halt afar. 

joy ! she sees me stand 
Doubting, and calls me near her throne, 

And waves her wand, 
As in my dreams, and smiles on me alone. 
O royal beauty, proud and sweet ! 

1 bow me at her feet 

To kiss that hand : 

Ah woe ! ah, fate malign ! 
By what a rude, revengeful gust, 
From that fair shrine 
Which holds my sovran mistress I am thrust ! 
Then comes a mocking voice's taunt, 
Crying, Thou fool, avaunt / 
She is not thine / 

And I am backward borne 
By unseen awful hands, and cast, 
In utter scorn, 
Forth from that brightness to the midnight blast : 
Not mine the minstrel-lover's wreath, 
But the dark, barren heath, 
And heart forlorn. 



AT TWILIGHT. 2 6l 



AT TWILIGHT. 

THE sunset darkens in the west, 
The sea-gulls haunt the bay, 
And far and high the swallows fly- 
To watch the dying day. 
Now where is she that once with me 

The rippling waves would list ? 
And O for the song I loved so long, 
And the darling lips I kist ! 

Yon twinkling sail may whiter gleam 

Than falcon's snowy wing, 
Her lances far the evening-star 

Beyond the waves may fling ; 
Float on, ah float, enchanted boat, 

Bear true hearts o'er the main, 
But I shall guide thy helm no more, 

Nor whisper love again ! 





II. 

POEMS OF NATURE. 



WOODS AND WATERS. 

" O ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 
O ye groves and crystal fountains ! 
How I love at liberty, 
By turns, to come and visit ye ! " 

COME, let us burst the cerements and the shroud, 
And with the livelong year renew our breath, 
Far from the darkness of the city's cloud 

Which hangs above us like the pall of Death. 
Haste, let us leave the shadow of his wings ! 
Off from our cares, a stolen, happy time ! 
Come where the skies are blue, the uplands green : 
For hark ! the robin sings 
Even here, blithe herald, his auroral rhyme, 
Foretelling joy, and June his sovereign queen. 

See, in our pave*d courts her missal scroll 
Is dropped astealth, and every verdant line, 

Emblazoned round with Summer's aureole, 
Pictures to eager eyes, like thine and mine, 



264 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Her trees new-leaved and hillsides far away. 
Ransom has come : out from this vaulted town, 
Poor prisoners of a giant old and blind, 
Into the breezy day, 
Fleeing the sights and sounds that wear us down, 
And in the fields our ancient solace find ! 

Again I hunger for the living wood, 

The laurelled crags, the hemlocks hanging wide, 
The rushing stream that will not be withstood, 

Bound forward to wed him with the river's tide : 
O what wild leaps through many a fettered pass, 
Through knotted ambuscade of root and rock, 
How white the plunge, how dark the cloven pool 
Then to rich meadow-grass, 
And pastures fed by tinkling herd and flock, 
Till the wide stream receives its waters cool. 

Again I long for lakes that lie between 

High mountains, fringed about with virgin firs, 
Where hand of man has never rudely been, 

Nor plashing wheel the limpid water stirs ; 
There let us twain begin the world again 

Like those of old ; while tree, and trout, and deer 
Unto their kindred beings draw our own, 
1 ill more than haunts of men, 
Than place and pelf, more welcome these appear, 
And better worth sheer life than we had known. 

Thither, ay, thither flee, O dearest friend, 

From walls wherein we grow so wan and old ! 

The liberal Earth will still her lovers lend 
Water of life and storied sands of gold. 

Though of her perfect form thou hast secured 



TO BAYARD TAYLOR. 265 

Thy will, some charm shall aye thine hold defy, 
And day by day thy passion yet shall grow, 
Even as a bridegroom, lured 

By the unravished secret of her eye, 

Reads the bride's soul, yet never all can know. 

And when from her embrace again thou'rt torn, 

(Though well for her the world were thrown away !) 
At thine old tasks thou 'It not be quite forlorn, 

Remembering where is peace ; and thou shalt say, 
" I know where beauty has not felt the curse, — 
Where, though I age, all round me is so young 
That in its youth my soul's youth mirrored seems ; 
Yes, in their rippling verse, 
For all our toil, they have not falsely sung 
Who said there still was rest beyond our dreams. 



TO BAYARD TAYLOR. 

WITH A COPY OF THE ILIAD. 

T) AYARD, awaken not this music strong, 
■*--' While round thy home the indolent sweet breeze 
Floats lightly as the summer breath of seas 
O'er which Ulysses heard the Sirens' song. 
Dreams of low-lying isles to June belong. 
And Circe holds us in her haunts of ease ; 
But later, when these high ancestral trees 
Are sere, and such melodious languors wrong 
The reddening strength of the autumnal year, 
Yield to heroic words thy ear and eye ; — 
12 



2 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Intent on these broad pages thou shalt hear 
The trumpets' blare, the Argive battle-cry, 
And see Achilles hurl his hurtling spear, 
And mark the Trojan arrows make reply ! 



THE MOUNTAIN. 

'TWO thousand feet in air it stands 
-*- Betwixt the bright and shaded lands, 
Above the regions it divides 
And borders with its furrowed sides. 
The seaward valley laughs with light 
Till the round sun o'erhangs this height ; 
But then the shadow of the crest 
No more the plains that lengthen west 
Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps 
Eastward, until the coolness steeps 
A darkling league of tilth and wold, 
And chills the flocks that seek their fold. 

Not like those ancient summits lone, 
Mont Blanc, on his eternal throne, — 
The city-gemmed Peruvian peak, — 
The sunset-portals landsmen seek, 
Whose train, to reach the Golden Land, 
Crawls slow and pathless through the sand, 
Or that, whose ice-lit beacon guides 
The mariner on tropic tides, 
And flames across the Gulf afar, 
A torch by day, by night a star, — 



!■ 



l A%: 






mm^M 



' Two thousand feet in air it stands." Page 266 



THE MOUNTAIN. 267 

Not thus, to cleave the outer skies, 
Does my serener mountain rise, 
Nor aye forget its gentle birth 
Upon the dewy, pastoral earth. 

But ever, in the noonday light, 

Are scenes whereof I love the sight, — 

Broad pictures of the lower world 

Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled. 

Irradiate distances reveal 

Fair nature wed to human weal ; 

The rolling valley made a plain ; 

Its checkered squares of grass and grain ; 

The silvery rye, the golden wheat, 

The flowery elders where they meet, — 

Ay, even the springing corn I see, 

And garden haunts of bird and bee ; 

And where, in daisied meadows, shines 

The wandering river through its vines, 

Move specks at random, which I know 

Are herds a-grazing to and fro. 

Yet still a goodly height it seems 

From which the mountain pours his streams, 

Or hinders, with caressing hands, 

The sunlight seeking other lands. 

Like some great giant, strong and proud, 

He fronts the lowering thunder-cloud, 

And wrests its treasures, to bestow 

A guerdon on the realm below ; 

Or, by the deluge roused from sleep 

Within his bristling forest-keep, 

Shakes all his pines, and far and wide 

Sends down a rich, imperious tide. 



2 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

At night the whistling tempests meet 
In tryst upon his topmost seat, 
And all the phantoms of the sky- 
Frolic and gibber, storming by. 

By day I see the ocean-mists 

Float with the current where it lists, 

And from my summit I can hail 

Cloud-vessels passing on the gale, — 

The stately argosies of air, — 

And parley with the helmsmen there ; 

Can probe their dim, mysterious source, 

Ask of their cargo and their course, — 

Whence come ? where bound? — and wait reply, 

As, all sails spread, they hasten by. 

If, foiled in what I fain would know, 
Again I turn my eyes below 
And eastward, past the hither mead 
Where all day long the cattle feed, 
A crescent gleam my sight allures 
And clings about the hazy moors, — 
The great, encircling, radiant sea, 
Alone in its immensity. 

Even there, a queen upon its shore, 
I know the city evermore 
Her palaces and temples rears, 
And wooes the nations to her piers ; 
Yet the proud city seems a mole 
To this horizon-bounded whole ; 
And, from my station on the mount, 
The whole is little worth account 
Beneath the overhanging sky, 



THE MOUNTAIN. 

That seems so far and yet so nigh. 
Here breathe I inspiration rare, 
Unburdened by the grosser air 
That hugs the lower land, and feel 
Through all my finer senses steal 
The life of what that life may be, 
Freed from this dull earth's density, 
When we, with many a soul-felt thrill, 
Shall thrid the ether at our will, 
Through widening corridors of morn 
And starry archways swiftly borne. 

Here, in the process of the night, 

The stars themselves a purer light 

Give out, than reaches those who gaze 

Enshrouded with the valley's haze. 

October, entering Heaven's fane, 

Assumes her lucent, annual reign : 

Then what a dark and dismal clod, 

Forsaken by the Sons of God, 

Seems this sad world, to those which march 

Across the high, illumined arch, 

And with their brightness draw me forth 

To scan the splendors of the North ! 

I see the Dragon, as he toils 

With Ursa in his shining coils, 

And mark the Huntsman lift his shield, 

Confronting on the ancient field 

The Bull, while in a mystic row 

The jewels of his girdle glow ; 

Or, haply, I may ponder long 

On that remoter, sparkling throng, 

The orient sisterhood, around 

Whose chief our Galaxy is wound ; 



269 



270 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thus, half enwrapt in classic dreams, 
And brooding over Learning's gleams, 
I leave to gloom the under-land, 
And from my watch-tower, close at hand, 
Like him who led the favored race, 
I look on glory face to face ! 

So, on the mountain-top, alone, 
I dwell, as one who holds a throne ; 
Or prince, or peasant, him I count 
My peer, who stands upon a mount, 
Sees farther than the tribes below, 
And knows the joys they cannot know ; 
And, though beyond the sound of speech 
They reign, my soul goes out to reach, 
Far on their noble heights elsewhere, 
My brother-monarchs of the air. 



HOLYOKE VALLEY. 

" Something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again." 

HOW many years have made their flights, 
Northampton, over thee and me, 
Since last I scaled those purple heights 
That guard the pathway to the sea ; 

Or climbed, as now, the topmost crown 
Of western ridges, whence again 

I see, for miles beyond the town, 
That sunlit stream divide the plain ? 



HOLYOKE VALLEY. 

There still the giant warders stand 

And watch the current's downward flow, 

And northward still, with threatening hand, 
The river bends his ancient bow. 

I see the hazy lowlands meet 

The sky, and count each shining spire, 
From those which sparkle at my feet 

To distant steeples tipt with fire. 

For still, old town, thou art the same : 
The redbreasts sing their choral tune, 

Within thy mantling elms aflame, 
As in that other, dearer June, 

When here my footsteps entered first, 
And summer perfect beauty wore, 

And all thy charms upon me burst, 
While Life's whole journey lay before. 

Here every fragrant walk remains, 
Where happy maidens come and go, 

And students saunter in the lanes 
And hum the songs I used to know. 

I gaze, yet find myself alone, 

And walk with solitary feet : 
How strange these wonted ways have grown ! 

Where are the friends I used to meet ? 

In yonder shaded Academe 

The rippling metres flow to-day, 

But other boys at sunset dream 
Of love, and laurels far away ; 



271 



272 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And ah ! from yonder trellised home, 
Less sweet the faces are that peer 

Than those of old, and voices come 
Less musically to my ear. 

Sigh not, ye breezy elms, but give 

The murmur of my sweetheart's vows, 

When Life was something worth to live, 

And Love was young beneath your boughs ! 

Fade beauty, smiling everywhere, 
That can from year to year outlast 

Those charms a thousand times more fair, 
And, O, our joys so quickly past ! 

Or smile to gladden fresher hearts 

Henceforth : but they shall yet be led, 

Revisiting these ancient parts, 
Like me to mourn their glory fled. 



THE FEAST OF HARVEST. 

' 1 "HE fair Earth smiled and turned herself and woke, 
-*- And to the Sun with nuptial greeting said : 
" I had a dream, wherein it seemed men broke 

A sovran league, and long years fought and bled, 
Till down my sweet sides ran my children's gore, 
And all my beautiful garments were made red, 
And all my fertile fields were thicket-grown, 
Nor could thy dear light reach me through the air ; 
At last a voice cried, ' Let them strive no more ! ' 
Then music breathed, and lo ! from my despair 
I wake to joy, — yet would not joy alone ! 



THE FEAST OF HARVEST. 



273 



" For, hark ! I hear a murmur on the meads, — 

Where as of old my children seek my face, — 
The low of kine, the peaceful tramp of steeds, 

Blithe shouts of men in many a pastoral place, 
The noise of tilth through all my goodliest land, 

And happy laughter of a dusky race 

Whose brethren lift them from their ancient toil, 

Saying : " The year of jubilee has come ; 
Gather the gifts of Earth with equal hand ; 

Henceforth ye too may share the birthright soil^ 

The corn, the wine, and all the harvest-home." 

" O my dear lord, my radiant bridegroom, look ! 

Behold their joy who sorrowed in my dreams, — 
The sword a share, the spear a pruning-hook ; 

Lo, I awake, and turn me toward thy beams 
Even as a bride again ! O, shed thy light 

Upon my fruitful places in full streams ! 
Let there be yield for every living thing • 

The land is fallow, — let there be increase 
After the darkness of the sterile night ; 

Ay, let us twain a festival of Peace 

Prepare, and hither all my nations bring ! " 

The fair Earth spake : the glad Sun speeded forth, 
Hearing her matron words, and backward drave 
To frozen caves the icy Wind of the North, — 

And bade the South Wind from the tropic wave 
Bring watery vapors over river and plain, — 

And bade the East Wind cross her path, and lave 
The lowlands, emptying there her laden mist, — 
And bade the Wind of the West, the best wind, blow 
After the early and the latter rain, — 

And beamed himself, and oft the sweet Earth kissed, 
While her swift servitors sped to and fro. 

12* R 



274 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Forthwith the troop that, at the beck of Earth, 

Foster her children, brought a glorious store 
Of viands, food of immemorial worth, 

Her earliest gifts, her tenderest evermore. 
First came the Silvery Spirit, whose marshalled files 

Climb up the glades in billowy breakers hoar, 
Nodding their crests ; and at his side there sped 

The Golden Spirit, whose yellow harvests trail 
Across the continents and fringe the isles, 

And freight men's argosies where'er they sail : 
O, what a wealth of sheaves he there outspread ! 

Came the dear Spirit whom Earth doth love the best, 

Fragrant of clover-bloom and new-mown hay, 
Beneath whose mantle weary ones finds rest, 

On whose green skirts the little children play : 
She bore the food our patient cattle crave. 

Next, robed in silk, with tassels scattering spray, 
Followed the generous Spirit of the Maize ; 

And many a kindred shape of high renown 
Bore in the clustering grape, the fruits that wave 
On orchard branches or in gardens blaze, 

And those the wind-shook forest hurtles down. 

Even thus they laid a great and marvellous feast, 

And Earth her children summoned joyously, 
Throughout that goodliest land wherein had ceased 

The vision of battle, and with glad hands free 
These took their fill, and plenteous measures poured, 

Beside, for those who dwelt beyond the sea ; 
Praise, like an incense, upward rose to Heaven 

For that full harvest ; and the autumnal Sun 
Stayed long above ; and ever at the board, 

Peace, white-robed angel, held the high seat given, 

And War far off withdrew his visage dun. 



WHAT THE WINDS BRING. 



275 



AUTUMN SONG. 

NO clouds are in the morning sky, 
The vapors hug the stream, — 
Who says that life and love can die 

In all this northern gleam ? 
At every turn the maples burn, 

The quail is whistling free, 
The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs 
Are dropping for you and me. 
Ho I hilly ho ! heigh O I 
Hilly ho / 
In the clear October morning. 

Along our path the woods are bold, 

And glow with ripe desire ; 
The yellow chestnut showers its gold, 

The sumachs spread their fire ; 
The breezes feel as crisp as steel, 

The buckwheat tops are red : 
Then down the lane, love, scurry again, 

And over the stubble tread ! 
Ho ! hilly ho / heigh O / 
Hilly ho.' 
In the clear October morning. 



WHAT THE WINDS BRING. 

WHICH is the Wind that brings the cold ? 
The North-Wind, Freddy, and all the snow ; 
And the sheep will scamper into the fold 
When the North begins to blow. 



276 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Which is the Wind that brings the heat ? 

The South- Wind, Katy; and corn will grow, 
And peaches redden for you to eat, 

When the South begins to blow. 

Which is the Wind that brings the rain ? 

The East- Wind, Arty ; and farmers know 
That cows come shivering up the lane 

When the East begins to blow. 

Which is the Wind that brings the flowers ? 

The West- Wind, Bessy ; and soft and low 
The birdies sing in the summer hours 

When the West begins to blow. 



BETROTHED ANEW. 

THE sunlight fills the trembling air, 
And balmy days their guerdons bring : 
The Earth again is young and fair, 
And amorous with musky Spring. 

The golden nurslings of the May 
In splendor strew the spangled green, 

And hues of tender beauty play, 
Entangled where the willows lean. 

VTark how the rippled currents flow: 
What lustres on the meadows lie ! 
. And hark, the songsters come and go, 
And trill between the earth and sky. 




k <mmmi 



BETROTHED ANEW. 

Who told us that the years had fled, 
Or borne afar our blissful youth ? 

Such joys are all about us spread, 
We know the whisper was not truth. 

The birds, that break from grass and grove, 
Sing every carol that they sung 

When first our veins were rich with love, 
And May her mantle round us flung. 

O fresh-lit dawn ! immortal life ! 

Earth's betrothal, sweet and true, 
With whose delights our souls are rife 

And aye their vernal vows renew ! 

Then, darling, walk with me this morn : 
Let your brown tresses drink its sheen ; 

These violets, within them worn, 
Of floral fays shall make you queen. 

What though there comes a time of pain 
When autumn winds forbode decay ; 

The days of love are born again, 
That fabled time is far away ! 

And never seemed the land so fair 

As now, nor birds such notes to sing, 
Since first within your shining hair 

1 wove the blossoms of the Spring. 



277 







III. 

SHADOW-LAND. 

"THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY." 

COULD we but know 
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, 
Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil, 

Aught of that country could we surely know, 
Who would not go ? 

Might we but hear 
The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, 

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, 
One radiant vista of the realm before us, — 
With one rapt moment given to see and hear, 
Ah, who would fear ? 

Were we quite sure 

To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, 

Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, 

To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, — 

This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, 

Who would endure ? 



THE ASSAULT BY NIGHT. 



"DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW." 

WAKING, I have been nigh to Death, • 
Have felt the dullness of his breath 
Whiten my cheek and numb my heart, 
And wondered why he stayed his dart, — 
Yet quailed not, but could meet him so, 
As any lesser friend or foe. 

But sleeping, in the dreams of night, 
His phantom stifles me with fright ! 
O God ! what frozen horrors fall 
Upon me with his visioned pall : 
The movelessness, the unknown dread, 
Fair life to pulseless silence wed ! 

And is the grave so darkly deep, 
So hopeless, as it seems in sleep ? 
Can our sweet selves the coffin hold 
So dumb within its crumbling mould ? 
And is the shroud so dank and drear 
A garb, — the noisome worm so near ? 

Where then is Heaven's mercy fled, — 
To quite forget the voiceless dead? 



THE ASSAULT BY NIGHT. 

ALL night we hear the rattling flaw, 
The casements shiver with each breath ; 
And still more near the foemen draw, 
The pioneers of Death. 



279 



2 8o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Their grisly chieftain comes : 
He steals upon us in the night ; 
Call up the guards ! light every light ! 

Beat the alarum drums ! 

His tramp is at the outer door ; 

He bears against the shuddering walls ; 
Lo ! what a dismal frost and hoar 
Upon the window falls ! 
Outbar him while ye may ! 
Feed, feed the watch-fires everywhere, — 
Even yet their cheery warmth will scare 
This thing of night away. 

Ye cannot ! something chokes the grate 

And clogs the air within its flues, 
And runners from the entrance-gate 
Come chill with evil news : 
The bars are broken ope ! 
Ha ! he has scaled the inner wall ! 
But fight him still, from hall to hall ; 
While life remains, there 's hope. 

Too late ! the very frame is dust, 

The locks and trammels fall apart ; 
He reaches, scornful of their trust, 
The portals of the heart. 
Ay, take the citadel ! 
But where, grim Conqueror, is thy prey ? 
In vain thou 'It search each secret way, 
Its flight is hidden well. 

We yield thee, for thy paltry spoils, 
This shell, this ruin thou hast made ; 



GEORGE ARNOLD. 2 8l 

Its tenant has escaped thy toils, 

Though they were darkly laid. 
Even now, immortal, pure, 

It gains a house not made with hands, 

A refuge in serener lands, 
A heritage secure. 



GEORGE ARNOLD. 

GREENWOOD, NOVEMBER 13, 1865. 

WE stood around the dreamless form 
Whose strength was so untimely shaken, 
Whose sleep not all our love could warm, 
Nor any dearest voice awaken ; 

And while the Autumn breathed her sighs, 
And dropped a thousand leafy glories, 

And all the pathways, and the skies, 
Were mindful of his songs and stories, 

Nor failed to wear the mingled hues 
He loved, and knew so well to render, 

But wooed — alas, in vain ! — their Muse 
For one more tuneful lay and tender, 

We paused awhile, — the gathered few 
Who came, in longing, not in duty, — 

With eyes that full of weeping grew, 
To look their last upon his beauty. 



2 82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Death would not rudely rob that face, 
Nor dim its fine Arcadian brightness, 

But gave the lines a clearer grace, 

And sleep's repose, and marble's whiteness. 

And, gazing there on him so young, 
We thought of all his ended mission, 

The broken links, the songs unsung, 
The love that found no ripe fruition ; 

Till last the old, old question came 

To hearts that beat with life around him, 

Why Death, with downward torch aflame, 
Had searched our number till he found him ? 

Why passed the one who poorly knows 
That blithesome spell for either fortune, 

Or mocked with lingering menace those 
Whose pains the final thrust importune ; 

Or left the toiling ones who bear 

The crowd's neglect, the want that presses, 

The woes no human soul can share, 
Nor look, nor spoken word, confesses. 

And from the earth no answer came, 
The forest wore a stillness deeper, 

The sky and lake smiled on the same, 
And voiceless as the silent sleeper. 

And so we turned ourselves away, 
By earth and air and water chidden, 

And left him with them, where he lay, 
A sharer of their secret hidden. 



THE SAD BRIDAL. 



283 



And each the staff and shell again 

Took up, and marched with memories haunted ; 
But henceforth, in our pilgrim-strain, 

We '11 miss a voice that sweetly chaunted ! 



THE SAD BRIDAL. 

WHAT would you do, my dear one said,- 
What would you do, if I were dead ? 
If Death should mumble, as he list, 
These red lips which now you kist ? 
What would my love do, were I wed 
To that ghastly groom instead ; 
If o'er me, in the chancel, Death 
Should cast his amaranthine wreath, — 
Before my eyes, with fingers pale, 
Draw down the mouldy bridal veil ? 
— Ah no ! no ! it cannot be ! 
Death would spare their light, and flee, 
And leave my love to Life and me ! 




OCCASIONAL POEMS. 




Several of the earlier productions under this title are reprinted in an- 
swer to frequent requests for copies of them, and in deference to a public 
sentiment which received them kindly when they first appeared. 




OCCASIONAL POEMS, 



SUMTER. 

APRIL 12, 1 87 1. 

f~* AME the morning of that day 
^-' When the God to whom we pray 
Gave the soul of Henry Clay 

To the land ; 
How we loved him, living, dying ! 
But his birthday banners flying 
Saw us asking and replying 

Hand to hand. 

For we knew that far away, 
Round the fort in Charleston Bay, 
Hung the dark impending fray, 

Soon to fall ; 
And that Sumter's brave defender 
Had the summons to surrender 
Seventy loyal hearts and tender, — 

(Those were all !) 



2 88 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

And we knew the April sun 
Lit the length of many a gun, — 
Hosts of batteries to the one 

Island crag; 
Guns and mortars grimly frowning, 
Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning, 
And ten thousand men disowning 

The old flag. 

O, the fury of the fight 

Even then was at its height ! 

Yet no breath, from noon till night, 

Reached us here ; 
We had almost ceased to wonder, 
And the day had faded under, 
When the echo of the thunder 

Filled each ear ! 

Then our hearts more fiercely beat, 
As we crowded on the street, 
Hot to gather and repeat 

All the tale ; 
All the doubtful chances turning, 
1 Till our souls with shame were burning, 

As if twice our bitter yearning 
Could avail ! 

Who had fired the earliest gun ? 

Was the fort by traitors won ? 

Was there succor ? What was done 

Who could know ? 
And once more our thoughts would wander 
To the gallant, lone commander, 
On his battered ramparts grander 

Than the foe. 



WANTED — A MAN. 289 

Not too long the brave shall wait: 
On their own heads be their fate, 
Who against the hallowed State 

Dare begin ; 
Flag defied and compact riven ! 
In the record of high Heaven 
How shall Southern men be shriven 

For the sin ? 



WANTED — A MAN. 

T) ACK from the trebly crimsoned field 
*-* Terrible words are thunder-tost ; 
Full of the wrath that will not yield, 

Full of revenge for battles lost ! 

Hark to their echo, as it crost 
The Capital, making faces wan : 

" End this murderous holocaust ; 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man ! 

" Give us a man of God's own mould, 

Born to marshal his fellow-men ; 
One whose fame is not bought and sold 

At the stroke of a politician's pen ; 

Give us the man of thousands ten, 
Fit to do as well as to plan ; 

Give us a rallying-cry, and then, 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 

" No leader to shirk the boasting foe,' 

And to march and countermarch our brave, 
1.3 S 



290 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, 
And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave ; 
Nor another, whose fatal banners wave 

Aye in Disaster's shameful van ; 

Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave ; — 

Abraham Lincoln, give us a man ! 

" Hearts are mourning in the North, 

"While the sister rivers seek the main, 
Red with our life-blood flowing forth, — 

Who shall gather it up again ? 

Though we march to the battle-plain 
Firmly as when the strife began, 

Shall all our offering be in vain ? — 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 

" Is there never one in all the land, 

One on whose might the Cause may lean ? 
Are all the common ones so grand, 

And all the titled ones so mean ? 

What if your failure may have been 
In trying to make good bread from bran, 

From worthless metal a weapon keen ? — 
Abraham Lincoln, find us a man ! 



" O, we will follow him to the death, 

Where the foeman's fiercest columns are ! 
O, we will use our latest breath, 
Cheering for every sacred star ! 
His to marshal us high and far ; 
Ours to battle, as patriots can 
. When a Hero leads the Holy War ! — 
Abraham Lincoln, give us a man ! " 

September 8, 1862. 



TREASON'S LAST DEVICE. 



291 



TREASON'S LAST DEVICE. 

SONS of New England, in the fray, 
Do you hear the clamor behind your back ? 
Do you hear the yelping of Blanche, and Tray, 

Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack ? 
Girded well with her ocean crags, 

Little our mother heeds their noise ; 
Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags : 
But you — do you hear it, Yankee boys ? 

Do you hear them say that the patriot fire 

Burns on her altars too pure and bright, 
To the darkened heavens leaping higher, 

Though drenched with the blood of every fight ; 
That in the light of its searching flame 

Treason and tyrants stand revealed, 
And the yielding craven is put to shame, 

On Capitol floor or foughten field ? 

Do you hear the hissing voice, which saith 

That she — who bore through all the land 
The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, 

And young Invention's mystic wand — 
Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, 

With not one of her sisters to share her fate, — 
A Hagar, wandering sick at heart ; 

A pariah, bearing the Nation's hate ? 

Sons, who have peopled the distant West, 
And planted the Pilgrim vine anew, 

Where, by a richer soil carest, 
It grows as ever its parent grew, 



292 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Say, do you hear, — while the very bells 

Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, 

And the song of your children sweetly tells 
How true was the land of your fathers' choice, 

Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak 

The word that shall sever the sacred tie ? 
And ye, who dwell by the golden Peak, 

Has the subtle whisper glided by ? 
Has it crost the immemorial plains, 

To coasts where the gray Pacific roars 
And the Pilgrim blood in the people's veins 

Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores? 

Spirits of sons who, side by side, 

In a hundred battles fought and fell, 
Whom now no East and West divide, 

In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell ; 
Say, has it reached your glorious rest, 

And ruffled the calm which crowns you there, - 
The shame that recreants have confest, 

The plot that floats in the troubled air ? 

Sons of New England, here and there, 

Wherever men are still holding by 
The honor our fathers left so fair ! 

Say, do you hear the cowards' cry ? 
Crouching among her grand old crags, 

Lightly our mother heeds their noise, 
With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags ; 

But you — do you hear it, Yankee boys ? 

Washington, January 19, 1863. 



ISRAEL FREYER'S BID FOR GOLD. 293 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

ASSASSINATED GOOD FRIDAY, 1865. 

" T70RGI VE them, for they know not what they do ! " 

J- He said, and so went shriven to his fate, — 
Unknowing went, that generous heart and true. 

Even while he spoke the slayer lay in wait, 

And when the morning opened Heaven's gate 
There passed the whitest soul a nation knew. 

Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late ; 
They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew, 

Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall stand 
Blind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore. 

Hark, from the eastern to the western strand, 
The swelling thunder of the people's roar : 

What words they murmur, — Fetter not her hand ! 
So let it smite, such deeds shall be no more ! 



ISRAEL FREYER'S BID FOR GOLD. 

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1 869. 

ZOUNDS ! how the price went flashing through 
Wall street, William, Broad street, New ! 
All the specie in all the land 
Held in one Ring by a giant hand — 
For millions more it was ready to pay, 
And throttle the Street on hangman's-day. 
Up from the Gold Pit's nether hell, 
While the innocent fountain rose and fell, 



294 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Loud and higher the bidding rose, 
And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes. 
It seemed as if Satan himself were in it : 
Lifting it — one per cent a minute — 
Through the bellowing brokei, there amid, 
Who made the terrible, final bid ! 
High over all, and ever higher, 
Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer, — 
A doleful knell in the storm- swept mart, — 
" Five millions more ! and for any part 
" I '11 give One Hundred and Sixty ! " 

Israel Freyer — the Government Jew — 

Good as the best — soaked through and through 

With credit gained in the year he sold 

Our Treasury's precious hoard of gold ; 

Now through his thankless mouth rings out 

The leaguers' last and cruellest shOut ! 

Pity the shorts ? Not they, indeed, 

While a single rival 's left to bleed ! 

Down come dealers in silks and hides, 

Crowding the Gold Room's rounded sides, 

Jostling, trampling each other's feet, 

Uttering groans in the outer street ; 

Watching, with upturned faces pale, 

The scurrying index mark its tale ; 

Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer, — 
That ominous voice, would it never tire ? 
" Five millions more ! — for any part, 
(If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart,) 
I '11 give One Hundred and Sixty ! " 

One Hundred and Sixty ! Can't be true ! 
What will the bears-at-forty do ? 



ISRAEL FREYER' S BID FOR GOLD. 2 g$ 

How will the merchants pay their dues ? 
How will the country stand the news ? 
What '11 the banks — but listen ! hold ! 
In screwing upward the price of gold 
To that dangerous, last, particular peg, 
They had killed their Goose with the Golden Egg ' 
Just there the metal came pouring out, 
All ways at once, like a water-spout, 
Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood, 
That drenched the bulls wherever they stood ! 
Small need to open the Washington main, 
Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain ! 
It came by runners, it came by wire, 
To answer the bid of Israel Freyer, 
It poured in millions from every side, 
And almost strangled him as he cried, — 
" I '11 give One Hundred and Sixty ! " 

Like Vulcan after Jupiter's kick, 
Or the aphoristical Rocket's stick, 
Down, down, down, the premium fell, 
Faster than this rude rhyme can tell ! 
Thirty per cent the index slid, 
Yet Freyer still kept making his bid, — 
" One Hundred and Sixty for any part ! " 
— The sudden ruin had crazed his heart, 
Shattered his senses, cracked his brain, 
And left him crying again and again, — 
Still making his bid at the market's top 
(Like the Dutchman's leg that never could stop,) 
" One Hundred and Sixty — Five Millions more ! * 
Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor. 
The very last words that seller and buyer 
Heard from the mouth of Israel Freyer — 



296 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

A cry to remember long as they live — 
Were, " I '11 take Five Millions more ! I '11 give, - 
I '11 give One Hundred and Sixty ! " 

Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil) 

There's such a thing as a Personal Devil, 

It would seem that his Highness here got hold, 

For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold ! 

Whether bull or bear, it wouldn 't much matter 

Should Israel Freyer keep up his clatter 

On earth or under it (as, they say, 

He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day, 

When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for 't, 

Shall bid him keep silence in that Court ! 

But it matters most, as it seems to me, 

That my countrymen, great and strong and free, 

So marvel at fellows who seem to win, 

That if even a Clown can only begin 

By stealing a railroad, and use its purse 

For cornering stocks and gold, or — worse — 

For buying a Judge and Legislature, 

And sinking still lower poor human nature, 

The gaping public, whatever befall, 

Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all ! 

While our rich men drivel and stand amazed 

At the dust and pother his gang have raised, 

And make us remember a nursery tale 

Of the four-and-twenty who feared one snail. 

What 's bred in the bone will breed, you know ; 
Clowns and their trainers, high and low, 
Will cut such capers, long as they dare, 
While honest Poverty says its prayer. 
But tell me what prayer or fast can save 



2 9 7 



CUBA. 

Some hoary candidate for the grave, 
The market's wrinkled Giant Despair, 
Muttering, brooding, scheming there, — 
Founding a college or building a church 
Lest Heaven should leave him in the lurch ! 
Better come out in the rival way, 
Issue your scrip in open day, 
And pour your wealth in the grimy fist 
Of some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist ; 
Leave toil and poverty where they lie, 
Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by, 
Your pot-house fag from his counters bring 
And make him into a Railway King ! 
Between such Gentiles and such Jews 
Little enough one finds to choose : 
Either the other will buy and use, 
Eat the meat and throw him the bone, 
And leave him to stand the brunt alone. 

— Let the tempest come, that 's gathering near, 
And give us a better atmosphere ! 



CUBA. 

T S it naught ? Is it naught 

-*- That the South-wind brings her wail to our shore, 

That the spoilers compass our desolate sister ? 
Is it naught ? Must we say to her, " Strive no more." 

With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her T 
With the mocking lips wherewith we said, 

" Thou art the dearest and fairest to us 
13* 



298 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Of all the daughters the sea hath bred, 
Of all green-girdled isles that woo us ! : 
Is it naught ? 



Must ye wait ? Must ye wait. 
Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm, 

Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water ? 
Must ye see them trample her, and be calm 

As priests when a virgin is led to slaughter ? 
Shall they smite the marvel of all lands, — 

The nation's longing, the Earth's completeness, — 
On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her hands 

Filled with fruitage and spice and sweetness ? 
Must ye wait ? 

In the day, in the night, 
In the burning day, in the dolorous night, 

Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping. 
Her watch-fires beacon the misty height : — 

Why are her friends and lovers sleeping ? 
" Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends, 

Who were my kindred before all others, — 
Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends ? 

Hath he made ye alien, my brothers, 
Day and night ? " 

Hear ye not ? Hear ye not 
From the hollow sea the sound of her voice ; 

The passionate, far-off tone, which sayeth : 
" Alas, my brothers ! alas, what choice, — 

The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth ? 
They bind me ! they rend my delicate locks ; 

They shred the beautiful robes I won me ! 



CRETE. 299 

My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks : 
Save me, ere they have quite undone me ! " 
Hear ye not ? 

Speak at last ! Speak at last ! 
In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right, 

Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler ! 
Say : " Will ye harry her in our sight ? 

Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her ! 
Loose her bonds ! let her rise in her loveliness, — 

Our virginal sister ; or, if ye shame her, 
Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress, 

And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar ! " 
Speak at last ! 

1870. 



CRETE. 

THOUGH Arkadi's shattered pile 
Hides her dead without a dirge, 
Lo ! where still the mountain isle 

Fronts the angry Moslem surge ! 
Hers, in old, heroic days, 

Her unfettered heights afar 

'Twixt the Grecian Gulf to raise, 

And the torrid Libyan star. 

From her bulwarks to the North 
Stretched the glad ^Egaean Sea, 

Sending bards and warriors forth 
To the triumphs of the free ; 

111 the fierce invader throve, 
When, from island or from main, 



3°o 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Side by side the Grecians strove : 
Swift he sought his lair again ! 

Though the Cretan eagle fell, 

And the ancient heights were won, 
Freedom's light was guarded well, — 

Handed down from sire to son ; 
Through the centuries of shame, 

Ah ! it never wholly died, 
But was hid, a sacred flame, 

There on topmost Ida's side. 

Shades of heroes Homer sung — 

Wearing once her hundred crowns - 
Rise with shadowy swords among 

Candia's smoking fields and towns ; 
Not again their souls shall sleep, 

Nor the crescent wane in peace, 
Till from every island-keep 

Shines the starry Cross of Greece. 



THE OLD ADMIRAL. 

C"^ ONE at last, 
J That brave old hero of the Past ! 
His spirit has a second birth, 

An unknown, grander life ; — 
All of him that was earth 

Lies mute and cold, 

Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade 
That has good entrance made 

Upon some distant, glorious strife. 





Ill I 



THE OLD ADMIRAL. 



301 



From another generation, 

A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came ; 
The morn and noontide of the nation 

Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame, — 
O, not outlived his fame ! 
The dauntless men whose service guards our shore 

Lengthen still their glory-roll 

With his name to lead the scroll, 
As a flagship at her fore 

Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars, 
Symbol of times that are no more 

And the old heroic wars. 

He was the one 

Whom Death had spared alone 

Of all the captains of that lusty age, 
Who sought the foeman where he lay, 
On sea or sheltering bay, 

Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage. 
They are gone, — all gone : 

They rest with glory and the undying Powers ; 

Onlytheirname andfame and what they saved are ours ! 

It was fifty years ago, 

Upon the Gallic Sea, 

He bore the banner of the free, 
And fought the fight whereof our children know. 

The deathful, desperate fight ! — 

Under the fair moon's light 
The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. 

Every broadside swept to death a score ! 
Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery en- 
signs fell, 

Neither foe replying more. 



302 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air, 

Old Ironsides rested there, 
Locked in between the twain, and drenched with blood. 

Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey ! 

O, it was a gallant fray, 

That fight in Biscay Bay ! 
Fearless the Captain stood, in his youthful hardihood ; 

He was the boldest of them all, 

Our brave old Admiral ! 

And still our heroes bleed, 
Taught by that olden deed. 

Whether of iron or of oak 
The ships we marshal at our country's need, 

Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke ; 
Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast 

As in the stormy Past. 

Lay him in the ground : 

Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; 
Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound 

Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls, 
Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave. 

Lay him gently down : 

The clamor of the town 
Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful ripe 
sleep 

Of this lion of the wave, 

Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. 

Earth to earth his dust is laid. 
Methinks his stately shade 

On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore ; 
Over cloudless western seas 



GETTYSBURG. 



303 



Seeks the far Hesperides, 

The islands of the blest, 
Where no turbulent billows roar, — 

Where is rest. 
His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands 
Nearing the deathless lands. 

There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, 

Await his coming long. 

I see the happy Heroes rise 

With gratulation in their eyes : 
" Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries ; 
" Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! 

Who win the glory and the scars ? 
How floats the skyey flag, — how many stars ? 

Still speak they of Decatur's name, 

Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame ? 

Of me, who earliest came ? 
Make ready, all : 
Room for the Admiral ! 

Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! " 



GETTYSBURG. 

WAVE, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave sol- 
diers of the North, 
And from the field your arms have won to-day go 

proudly forth ! 
For now, O comrades dear and leal, — from whom no 

ills could part, 
Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's 
constant heart, — 



304 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven 

in vain, 
Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path 

again, — 
At last we have our hearts' desire, from them we met 

have wrung 
A victory that round the world shall long be told and 

sung ! 
It was the memory of the past that bore us through 

the fray, 
That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on 

this day ! 

O now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers flow, 

The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and the 
woe ; 

The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew 
full sore 

How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall 
cool no more ; 

The fields we fought, and gained, and lost ; the low- 
land sun and rain 

That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our un- 
buried slain ! 

There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no 
lack, 

And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our 
track ; 

But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall 
mark afar 

The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the north- 
ern star. 

At night, before the closing fray, when all the front 
was still, 



GETTYSBURG. 



305 



We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. 
Ours was the dauntless Second Corps ; and many a 

soldier knew 
How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was 

yet to do. 
Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with 

bated breath 
Of Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Rey- 
nold's death, 
Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous 

volleys swept, — 
How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody 

outposts kept : 
'T was for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, 

heroes all, 
And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them 

to fall. 

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim 

day just done, 
The fight by Round Top's craggy spur, — of all the 

deadliest one ; 
It saved the left : but on the right they pressed us 

back too well, 
And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with 

shot and shell. 
There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed 

and red, 
And there, between them, side by side, the wounded 

and the dead : 
The mangled corpses fallen above, — the peaceful dead 

below, 
Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years 

ago; 

T 



306 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking 

of our slain, 
What brought such hideous tumult now where they so 

still had lain ! 



Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morn- 
ing-tide, 
And call of trump and roll of drum from height to 

height replied. 
Hark ! from the east already goes up the rattling din ; 
The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right 

well the day begin ! 
They whirl fierce Ewell from their front ! Now we of 

the Second pray, 
As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre 

might to-day. 
But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless 

hour, 
While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his 

power ; 
And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not 

rest or fear, 
And along the lines, where'er they came, went up 

the ringing cheer. 

T was past the hour of nooning ; the Summer skies 
were blue ; 

Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view ; 

So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant val- 
ley lay, 

It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows 
far away ; 

When the whole western ridge at once was fringed 
with fire and smoke : 



GETTYSBURG. 307 

Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful 
tempest broke ! 

Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, 

And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and 
west ; 

Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur- 
cloud, 

And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath 
its shroud. 

The guns are still : the end is nigh : we grasp our 

arms anew ; 
O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be 

true ! 
For look ! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's 

further marge, 
The flower of all the Southern host move to the final 

charge. 
By Heaven ! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank 
Come with a hundred battle-flags, — a mile from flank 

to flank ! 
Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand 

men abreast ; 
Their standards wave, — their hearts are brave, — they 

hasten not, nor rest, 
But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, 

and nigher, 
And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire ! 

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our 

wrath has vent ! 
They die, they wither ; through and through their 

wavering lines are rent. 
But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race 

and land, 



308 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us 

hand to hand : 
Vain, vain ! give way, as well ye may — the crimson 

die is cast ! 
Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is 

failing fast ; 
They yield, they turn, they fly the field : we smite them 

as they run ; 
Their arms, their colors are our spoil ; the furious fight 

is done ! 
Across the plain we .follow far and backward push the 

fray : 
Cheer ! cheer ! the grand old Army at last has won the 

day ! 

Hurrah ! the day has won the cause ! No gray-clad 

host henceforth 
Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways 

of the North ! 
'T was such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic 

shore, 
The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling 

surge and roar : 
It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire 
Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher 

mount, and higher ; 
But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its bil- 
lows call, 
Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and 

fall, and fall. 
Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg 

the foe 
His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no 

further go. 






GETTYSBURG. 



309 



Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her 
lover dead ; 

But with a price the fight was ours, — we too have 
tears to shed ! 

The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll 
the brave, 

Above whose* heads the cross must stand, the hill- 
side grasses wave ! 

Alas ! alas ! the trampled grass shall thrive another 
year, 

The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new 
Spring appear, 

But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up 
to God ; 

Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms 
are as the sod ; 

Only their names and deeds are ours, — but, for a cen- 
tury yet, 

The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not 
forget. 

God send us peace ! and where for aye the loved and 
lost recline 

Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm, — O North, 
your sprigs of pine ! 

But when, with every ripened year, we keep the har- 
vest-home, 

And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and 
daughters come, — 

When children's children throng the board in the old 
homestead spread, 

And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, 

Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard 
tell 



3 IO OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their 

ground so well : 
" 'T was for the Union and the Flag," the veteran 

shall say, 
" Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that 

glorious day ! " 



DARTMOUTH ODE. 
I. 



A 



PRELUDE. 

WIND and a voice from the North ! 
A courier-wind sent forth 
From the mountains to the sea : 
A summons borne to me 
From halls which the Muses haunt, from hills where 
the heart and the wind are free ! 

" Come from the outer throng ! " 
(Such was the burden it bore,) 
" Thou who hast gone before, 
Hither ! and sing us a song, 
Far from the round of the town and the sound of the 
great world's roar ! " 

O masterful voice of Youth, 
That will have, like the upland wind, its own wild 

way! 
O choral words, that with every season rise 
Like the warblings of orchard-birds at break of day ! 
O faces, fresh with the light of morning skies ! 



DARTMOUTH ODE. 3H 

No marvel world-worn toilers seek you here, 
Even as they life renew, from year to year, 
In woods and meadows lit with blossoming May ; 
But O, blithe voices, that have such sweet power, 
Unto your high behest this summer hour 
Afhat answer has the poet? how shall he frame his 
lay? 

II. 

THEME. 

" What shall my song rehearse ? " I said 
To a wise bard, whose hoary head 
Is bowed, like Kearsarge crouching low 
Beneath a winter weight of snow, 
But whose songs of passion, joy, or scorn, 
Within a fiery heart are born. 

" What can I spread, what proper feast 

For these young Magi of the East ? 

What wisdom find, what mystic lore, 

What chant they have not heard before? 

Strange words of old has every tongue 

Those happy cloistered hills among ; 

For each riddle I divine 

They can answer me with nine ; 

Their footsteps by the Muse are led, 

Their lips on Plato's honey fed ; 

Their eyes have skill to read the page 

Of Theban bard or Attic sage ; 
'' For them all Nature's mysteries, — 

The deep-down secrets of the seas, 

The cyclone's whirl, the lightning's shock, 

The language of the riven rock ; 

They know the starry sisters seven, — 



312 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



What clouds the molten suns enfold, 
And all the golden woof of heaven 
Unravelled in their lens behold ! 
Gazing in a thousand eyes, 
So rapt and clear, so wonder-wise, 
What shall my language picture, then, 
Beyond their wont — that has not reached their ken ? 

" What else are poets used to sing, 
Who sing of youth, than laurelled fame and love ? 

But ah ! it needs no words to move 

Young hearts to some impassioned vow, 

To whom already on the wing 

The blind god hastens. Even now 

Their pulses quiver with a thrill 

Than all that wisdom wiser still. 
Nor any need to tell of rustling bays, 
Of honor ever at the victor's hand, 

To them who at the portals stand 
Like mettled steeds, — each eager from control 
To leap, and, where the corso lies ablaze, 
Let out his speed and soonest pass the goal. 

" What is there left ? what shall my verse 
Within those ancient halls rehearse ? " 
Deep in his heart my plaint the minstrel weighed, 
And a subtle answer made : 
" The world that is, the ways of men, 
Not yet are glassed within their ken, 
Their foster-mother holds them long, — 
Long, long to youth, — short, short to age, appear 

The rounds of her Olympic Year, — 
Their ears are quickened for the trumpet-call. 
Sing to them one true song, 



DARTMOUTH ODE. 3T3 

Ere from the Happy Vale they turn, 
Of all the Abyssinian craved to learn, 
And dared his fate, and scaled the mountain-wall 
To join the ranks without, and meet what might 
befall." 



III. 

VESTIGIA RETRORSUM. 

GONE the Arcadian age, 
When, from his hillside hermitage 
Sent forth, the gentle scholar strode 
At ease upon a royal road, 

And found the outer regions all they seem 
In Youth's prophetic dream. 
The graduate took his station then 
By right, a ruler among men : 
Courtly the three estates, and sure ; 
The bar, the bench, the pulpit, pure ; 
No cosmic doubts arose, to vex 
The preacher's heart, his faith perplex. 
Content in ancient paths he trod, 
Nor searched beyond his Book for God. 
Great virtue lurked in many a saw 
And in the doctor's Latin lay ; 

Men thought, lived, died, in the appointed way. 
Yet eloquence was slave to law, 
And law to right : the statesman sought 

A patriot's fame, and served his land, unbought, 
And bore erect his front, and held his oath in awe. 



14 



314 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

IV. 

jEREA proles. 

But, now, far other days 
Have made less green the poet's bays, — 
Have less revered the band and gown, 
The grave physician's leame'd frown, — 
Shaken the penitential mind 
That read the text nor looked behind, — 
Brought from his throne the bookman down, 

Made hard the road to station and renown ! 
Now from this seclusion deep 
The scholar wakes, — as one from sleep, 
As one from sleep remote and sweet, 
In some fragrant garden-close 
Between the lily and the rose, 
Roused by the tramp of many feet, 

Leaps up to find a ruthless, warring band, 

Dust, strife, an untried weapon in his hand ! 
The time unto itself is strange, 
Driven on from change to change, 
Neither of past nor present sure, 

The ideal vanished nor the real secure. 
Heaven has faded from the skies, 

Faith hides apart and weeps with clouded eyes ; 

A noise of cries we hear, a noise of creeds, 
While the old heroic deeds 

Not of the leaders now are told, as then, 
But of lowly, common men. 
See by what paths the loud-voiced gain 
Their little heights above the plain : 
Truth, honor, virtue, cast away 
For the poor plaudits of a day ! 
Now fashion guides at will 






DARTMOUTH ODE. 



315 



The artist's brush, the writer's quill, 

While, for a weary time unknown, 

The reverent workman toils alone, 
Asking for bread and given but a stone. 

Fettered with gold the statesman's tongue ; 
Now, even the church, among 
New doubts and strange discoveries, half in vain 

Defends her long, ancestral reign ; 

Now, than all others grown more great, 

That which was the last estate 

By turns reflects and rules the age, — 
Laughs, scolds, weeps, counsels, jeers, — a jester and a 
sage! 



ENCHANTMENTS. 

HERE, in Learning's shaded haunt, 

The battle-fugue and mingled cries forlorn 
Softened to music seem, nor the clear spirit daunt ; 

Here, in the gracious world that looks 
From earth and sky and books, 
Easeful and sweet it seems all else to scorn 
Than works of noble use and virtue born ; 
Brave hope and high ambition consecrate 

Our coming years to something great. 
But when the man has stood, 

Anon, in garish outer light, 
Feeling the first wild fever of the blood 

That places self with self at strife 
Whether to hoard or drain the wine of life, — 
When the broad pageant flares upon the sight, 

And tuneful Pleasure plumes her wing 
And the crowds jostle and the mad bells ring, — 



316 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Then he, who sees the vain world take slow heed 

Albeit of his worthiest and best, 

And still, through years of failure and unrest, 

Would keep inviolate his vow, 
Of all his faith and valor has sore need ! 
Even then, I know, do nobly as we will, 
What we would not, we do, and see not how ; 
That which we would, is not, we know not why ; 
Some fortune holds us from our purpose still, — 
Chance sternly beats us back, and turns our steps 
awry ! 

VI. 

YOUTH AND AGE. 

HOW slow, how sure, how swift, 

The sands within each glass, 

The brief, illusive moments, pass ! 

Half unawares we mark their drift 
Till the awakened heart cries out, — Alas ! 

Alas, the fair occasion fled, 
The precious chance to action all unwed ! 
And murmurs in its depths the old refrain, — 
Had we but known betimes what now we know in 



When the veil from the eyes is lifted 

The seer's head is gray ; 
When the sailor to shore has drifted 

The sirens are far away. 
Why must the clearer vision, 

The wisdom of Life's late hour, 
Come, as in Fate's derision, 

When the hand has lost its power ? 



3i7 



DARTMOUTH ODE. 

Is there a rarer being, 

Is there a fairer sphere 
Where the strong are not unseeing, 

And the harvests are not sere ; 
Where, ere the seasons dwindle 

They yield their due return ; 
Where the lamps of knowledge kindle 

While the flames of youth still burn ? 
O for the young man's chances ! 

O for the old man's will ! 
Those flee while this advances, 

And the strong years cheat us still. 

VII. 

WHAT CHEER? 

Is there naught else ? — you say, — 

No braver prospect far away ? 

No gladder song, no ringing call 

Beyond the misty mountain-wall ? 

And were it thus indeed, I know 

Your hearts would still with courage glow ; 

I know how yon historic stream 

Is laden yet, as in the past, 

With dreamful longings on it cast 

By those who saunter from the crown 
Of this broad slope, their reverend Academe, — 
Who reach the meadowed banks, and lay them down 
On the green sward, and set their faces south, 

Embarked in Fancy's shallop there, 
And with the current seek the river's mouth, 
Finding the outer ocean grand and fair. 

Ay, like the stream's perpetual tide, 
Wave after wave each blithe, successive throng 






3 i8 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Must join the main and wander far and wide. 
To you the golden, vanward years belong ! 
Ye need not fear to leave the shore : 
Not seldom youth has shamed the sage 
With riper wisdom, — but to age 
Youth, youth, returns no more ! 
Be yours the strength by will to conquer fate, 
Since to the man who sees his purpose clear, 
And gains that knowledge of his sphere 
Within which lies all happiness, — 
Without, all danger and distress, — 
And seeks the right, content to strive and wait, 
To him all good things flow, nor honor crowns him 
late. 

VIII. 

PHAROS. 

One such there was, that brother elder-born 
And loftiest, — from your household torn 
In the rathe spring-time, ere 
His steps could seek their olden pathways here. 

Mourn ! 
Mourn, for your Mother mourns, of him bereft, — 
Her strong one ! he is fallen : 

But has left 
His works your heritage and guide, 
Through East and West his stalwart fame divide. 

Mourn, for the liberal youth, 
The undaunted spirit whose quintessence rare, 

Fanned by the Norseland air, 
Saw flaming in its own white heat the truth 

That Man, whate'er his ancestry, 
Tanned by what sun or exiled from what shore, 
Hears in his soul the high command, — Be Free ! 



DARTMOUTH ODE. 



319 



For him who, at the parting of the ways, 

Disdained the flowery path, and gave 
His succor to the hunted Afric slave, 
Whose cause he chose nor feared the world's dis- 
praise ; 
Yet found anon the right become the might, 

And, in the long revenge of time, 
Lived to renown and hoary years sublime. 

Ye know him now, your beacon-light ! 

Ay, he was fronted like a tower, — 

In thought large-moulded, as of frame ; 

He that, in the supreme hour, 
Sat brooding at the river-heads of power 
With sovereign strength for every need that came ! 

Not for that blameless one the place 
That opens wide to men of lesser race ; — 

Even as of old the votes are given, 
And Aristides is from Athens driven ; 
But for our statesman, in his grander trust 

No less the undefiled, The Just, — 
With poesy and learning lightly worn, 
And knees that bent to Heaven night and morn, — 
For him that sacred, unimpassioned seat, 
Where right and wrong for stainless judgment meet 
Above the greed, the strife, the party call. — 
Henceforth let Chase's robes on no base shoulders 
fall! 

IX. 

ATLANTIS SURGENS. • 

Well may your hearts be valiant, — ye who stand 

Within that glory from the past, 
And see how ripe the time, how fair the land 



320 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



In which your lot is cast ! 
For us alone your sorrow, 
Ye children of the morrow, — 
For us, who struggle yet, and wait, 
Sent forth too early and too late ! 
But yours shall be our tenure handed down, 
Conveyed in blood, stamped with the martyr's 
crown ; 
For which the toilers long have wrought, 
And poets sung, and heroes fought ; 
The new Saturnian age is yours, 
That juster season soon to be 
On the near coasts (whereto your vessels sail 

Beyond the darkness and the gale), 
Of proud Atlantis risen from the sea ! 
You shall not know the pain that now endures 
The surge, the smiting of the waves, 
The overhanging thunder, 
The shades of night which plunge engulfdd under 

Those yawning island-caves ; 
But in their stead for you shall glisten soon 
The coral circlet and the still lagoon, 

Green shores of freedom, blest with calms, 
And sunlit streams and meads, and shadowy palms : 
Such joys await you, in our sorrows' stead ; 
Thither our charts have almost led ; 
Nor in that land shall worth, truth, courage, ask for 
alms. 

X. 

VALETE ET SALVETE. 

O, trained beneath the Northern Star! 
Worth, courage, honor, these indeed 






HORACE GREELEY. 



321 



Your sustenance and birthright are ! 
Now, from her sweet dominion freed, 
Your Foster Mother bids you speed ; 
Her gracious hands the gates unbar, 
Her richest gifts you bear away, 
Her memories shall be your stay : 
Go where you will, her eyes your course shall mark 
afar. 

June 25, 1873. 

HORACE GREELEY. 

EARTH, let thy softest mantle rest 
On this worn child to thee returning, 
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast, 

Who loved thee with such tender yearning ! 
He knew thy fields and woodland ways, 

And deemed thy humblest son his brother : — 
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise, 
We yield him back, O gentle Mother ! 

Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill : 

Who has not read the life-long story ? 
And dear we hold his fame, but still 

The man was dearer than his glory. 
And now to us are left alone 

The closet where his shadow lingers, 
The vacant chair, — that was a throne, — 

The pen, just fallen from his fingers. 

Wrath changed to kindness on that pen ; 

Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey ; 
One flash from out the cloud, and then 

The skies with smile and jest were sunny. 
14* u 



322 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Of hate he surely lacked the art, 

Who made his enemy his lover : 
O reverend head and Christian heart ! 

Where now their like the round world over ? 

He saw the goodness, not the taint, 

In many a poor, do-nothing creature, 
And gave to sinner and to saint, 

But kept his faith in human nature ; 
Perchance he was not worldly-wise, 

Yet we who noted, standing nearer, 
The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes, 

For every weakness held him dearer. 

Alas that unto him who gave 

So much, so little should be given ! 
Himself alone he might not save 

Of all for whom his hands had striven. 
Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed : 

Men took, and passed, and left him lonely ; — 
What marvel if, beneath his load, 

At times he craved — for justice only ! 

Yet thanklessness, the serpent's tooth, 

His lofty purpose could not alter ; 
Toil had no power to bend his youth, 

Or make his lusty manhood falter ; 
From envy's sling, from slander's dart, 

That armored soul the body shielded, 
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart, 

And then he bowed his head and yielded. 

Now, now, we measure at its worth 
The gracious presence gone forever ! 



HORACE GREELEY. 32' 

The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, 

Laments with every laboring river ; 
Wild moan the free winds of the West 

For him who gathered to her prairies 
The sons of men, and made each crest 

The haunt of happy household fairies ; 

And anguish sits upon the mouth 

Of her who came to know him latest : 
His heart was ever thine, O South ! 

He was thy truest friend, and greatest ! 
He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, 

He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow ; 
The day thou shalt forget his name, 

Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. 

The tears that fall from eyes unused, — 

The hands above his grave united, — 
The words of men whose lips he loosed, 

Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted, — 
Could he but know, and rest with this ! 

Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow, 
His one last foe's insatiate hiss 

On that benignant shade would follow ! 

Peace ! while we shroud this man of men 

Let no unhallowed word be spoken ! 
He will not answer thee again, 

His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 
Some holier cause, some vaster trust 

Beyond the veil, he doth inherit : 
O gently, Earth, receive his dust, 

And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit ! 

December 3, 187a. 



3:4 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. 

SO that soldierly legend is still on its journey, — 
That story of Kearny who knew not to yield ! 
'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and 
Birney, 
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose 
highest, 
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak 
and pine, 
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nigh- 
est, — 
No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our 
ground, 
He rode down the length of the withering column, 

And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound ; 
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder, — 

His sword waved us on and wf answered the sign : 
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the 
louder, 
"There 's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole 
line ! " 

How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his blade 
brighten 
In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his 
teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. 



CUSTER. 325 

Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 
Asking where to go in, — through the clearing or 
pine ? 

" O, anywhere ! Forward ! 'T is all the same, Colonel : 
You '11 find lovely fighting along the whole line ! " 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 

That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! 
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, 

The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still, — in that shadowy region 

Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum- 
mer's sign, — 
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 

And the word still is Forward ! along the whole line. 



CUSTER. 

WHAT ! shall that sudden blade 
Leap out no more ? 
No more thy hand be laid 
Upon the sword-hilt, smiting sore ? 
O for another such 
The charger's rein to clutch, — 
One equal voice to summon victory, 

Sounding thy battle-cry, 
Brave darling of the soldiers' choice ! 
Would there were one more voice ! 

O gallant charge, too bold ! 
O fierce, imperious greed 
To pierce the clouds that in their darkness hold 



326 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Slaughter of man and steed ! 
Now, stark and cold, 
Among thy fallen braves thou liest, 
And even with thy blood defiest 
The wolfish foe : 
But ah, thou liest low, 
And all our birthday song is hushed indeed 

Young lion of the plain, 

Thou of the tawny mane ! 
Hotly the soldiers' hearts shall beat, 

Their mouths thy death repeat, 
Their vengeance seek the trail again 

Where thy red doomsmen be ; 
But on the charge no more shall stream 
Thy hair, — no more thy sabre gleam, — 

No more ring out thy battle-shout, 
Thy cry of victory ! 

Not when a hero falls 
The sound a world appalls : 
For while we plant his cross 

There is a glory, even in the loss : 
But when some craven heart 
From honor dares to part, 
• Then, then, the groan, the blanching cheek, 
And men in whispers speak, 

Nor kith nor country dare reclaim 
From the black depths his name. 

Thou, wild young warrior, rest, 
By all the prairie winds caressed ! 
Swift was thy dying pang ; 
Even as the war-cry rang 



THE COMEDIAN'S LAST NIGHT. 327 

Thy deathless spirit mounted high 
And sought Columbia's sky : — 
There, to the northward far, 

Shines a new star, 
And from it blazes down 
The light of thy renown ! 

July 10, 1876. 



THE COMEDIAN'S LAST NIGHT. 

NOT yet ! No, no, — you would not quote 
That meanest of the critic's gags ? 
'T was surely not of me they wrote 

Those words, too late the veteran lags : 
'T is not so very late with me ; 

I 'm not so old as that, you know, 
Though work and trouble — as you see — 

(Not years) have brought me somewhat low- 
I failed, you say ? No, no, not yet ! 

Or, if I did, — with such a past, 
Where is the man would have me quit 

Without one triumph at the last ? 

But one night more, — a little thing 

To you, — I swear 't is all I ask ! 
Once more to make the wide house ring, — 

To tread the boards, to wear the mask, 
To move the coldest as of yore, 

To make them laugh, to make them cry, 
To be — to be myself once more. 

And then, if must be, let me die ! 



328 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

The prompter's bell ! I 'm here, you see : 
By Heaven, friends, you '11 break my heart ! 

Nat Gosling'' 's called : let be, let be, — 
None but myself shall act the part ! 



Yes, thank you, boy, I '11 take your chair 

One moment, while I catch my breath. 
D' ye hear the noise they 're making there ? 

'T would warm a player's heart in death. 
How say you now ? Whate'er they write, 

We 've put that bitter gibe to shame ; 
I knew, I knew there burned to-night 

Within my soul the olden flame ! 
Stand off a bit : that final round, — 

I 'd hear it ere it dies away 
The last, last time ! — there 's no more sound 

So end the player and the play. 

The house is cleared. My senses swim j 

I shall be better, though, anon, — 
One stumbles when the lights are dim, — 

'T is growing late : we must be gone. 
Well, braver luck than mine, old friends ! 

A little work and fame are ours 
While Heaven health and fortune lends, 

And then — the coffin and the flowers ! 
These scattered garments ? let them lie : 

Some fresher actor (I 'm not vain) 
Will dress anew the part ; — but I — 

I shall not put them on again. 

November 17, 1875. 



THE MONUMENT OF GREELEY. 329 



THE MONUMENT OF GREELEY. 

READ AT THE UNVEILING OF THE BUST SURMOUNTING THE 
PRINTERS' MONUMENT TO HORACE GREELEY, GREEN- 
WOOD CEMETERY, DECEMBER 4, 1 876. 

ONCE more, dear mother Earth, we stand 
In reverence where thy bounty gave 
Our brother, yielded to thy hand, 

The sweet protection of the grave ! 
Well hast thou soothed him through the years, 

The years our love and sorrow number, — 
And with thy smiles, and with thy tears, 
Made green and fair his place of slumber. 

Thine be the keeping of that trust ; 

And ours this image, born of Art 
To shine above his hidden dust, 

What time the sunrise breezes part 
The trees, and with new light enwreathe 

Yon head, — until the lips are golden, 
And from them music seems to breathe 

As from the desert statue olden. 

Would it were so ! that now we might 

Hear once his uttered voice again, 
Or hold him present to our sight, 

Nor reach with empty hands and vain ! 
O that, from some far place, were heard 

One cadence of his speech returning, — ■ 
A. whispered tone, a single word, 

Sent back in answer to our yearning ! 



330 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

It may not be ? What then the spark, 

The essence which illumed the whole 
And made his living form its mark 

And outward likeness ? What the soul 
That warmed the heart and poised the head, 

And spoke the thoughts we now inherit ? 
Bright force of fire and ether bred, — 

Where art thou now, elusive Spirit ? 

Where, now, the sunburst of a love 

Which blended still with sudden wrath 
To nerve the righteous hand that strove, 

And blaze in the oppressor's path ? 
Fair Earth, our dust is thine indeed ! 

Too soon he reached the voiceless portal, - 
That whither leads ? Where lies the mead 

He gained, and knew himself immortal ? 

Or, tell us, on what distant star, 

Where even as here are toil and wrong, 
With strength renewed he lifts afar 

A voice of aid, a war-cry strong ? 
What fruit, this stern Olympiad past, 

Has that rich nature elsewhere yielded, 
What conquest gained and knowledge vast, 

What kindred beings loved and shielded ! 

Why seek to know ? he little sought, 

Himself, to lift the close-drawn veil, 
Nor for his own salvation wrought 

And pleaded, ay, and wore his mail ; 
No selfish grasp of life, no fear, 

Won for mankind his ceaseless caring, 
But for themselves he held them dear, — 

Their birth and shrouded exit sharing. 



THE MONUMENT OF GREELEY. 33 1 

Not his the feverish will to live 

A sunnier life, a longer space, 
Save that the Eternal Law might give 

The boon in common to his race. 
Earth, 't was thy heaven he loved, and best 

Thy precious offspring, man and woman, 
And labor for them seemed but rest 

To him, whose nature was so human. 

Even here his spirit haply longed 

To stay, remembered by our kind. 
And where the haunts of men are thronged 

Move yet among them. Seek and find 
A presence, though his voice has ceased, 

Still, even where we dwell, remaining, 
With all its tenderest thrills increased 

And all it cared to ask obtaining. 

List, how the varied things that took 

The impress of his passion rare 
Make answer ! To the roadways look, 

The watered vales, the hamlets fair. 
He walks unseen the living woods, 

The fields, the town, the shaded borough, 
And in the pastoral solitudes 

Delights to view the lengthening furrow. 

The faithful East that cradled him, 

Still, while she deems her nursling sleeps, 
Sits by his couch with vision dim ; 

The plenteous West his feast-day keeps ; 
The wistful South recalls the ways 

Of one who in his love enwound her, 
And stayed her, in the evil days, 

With arms of comfort thrown around her. 



332 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

He lives wherever men to men 

In perilous hours his words repeat, 
Where clangs the forge, where glides the pen, 

Where toil and traffic crowd the street ; 
And in whatever time or place 

Earth's purest souls their purpose strengthen, 
Down the broad pathway of his race 

The shadow of his name shall lengthen. 

" Still with us ! " all the liegemen cry 

Who read his heart and held him dear ; 
The hills declare " He shall not die ! " 

The prairies answer " He is here ! " 
Immortal thus, no dread of fate 

Be ours, no vain 7ne7nento mori : 
Life, Life, not Death, we celebrate, — 

A lasting presence touched with glory. 

The star may vanish, — but a ray, 

Sent forth, what mandate can recall ? 
The circling wave still keeps its way 

That marked a turret's seaward fall ; 
The least of music's uttered strains 

Is part of Nature's voice forever ; 
And aye beyond the grave remains 

The great, the good man's high endeavor ! 

Well may the brooding Earth retake 

The form we knew, to be a part 
Of bloom and herbage, fern and brake, 

New lives that from her being start. 
Naught of the soul shall there remain : 

They came on void and darkness solely 
Who the veiled Spirit sought in vain 

Within the temple's shrine Most Holy. 



THE MONUMENT OF GREELEY. 333 

That, that, has found again the source 

From which itself to us was lent : 
The Power that, in perpetual course, 

Makes of the dust an instrument 
Supreme ; the universal Soul ; 

The current infinite and single 
Wherein, as ages onward roll, 

Life, Thought, and Will forever mingle. 

What more is left, to keep our hold 

On him who was so true and strong ? 
This semblance, raised above the mould 

With offerings of word and song, 
That men may teach, in aftertime, 

Their sons how goodness marked the features 
Of one whose life was made sublime 

By service for his brother creatures. 

And last, and lordliest, his fame, — 

A station in the sacred line 
Of heroes that have left a name 

We conjure with, — a place divine, 
Since, in the world's eternal plan, 

Divinity itself is given, 
To him who lives or dies for Man 

And looks within his soul for Heaven. 



334 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



NEWS FROM OLYMPIAN 

OLYMPIA ? Yes, strange tidings from the city 
Which pious mortals builded, stone by stone, 
For those old gods of Hellas, half in pity 

Of their storm-mantled height and dwelling lone, — 
Their seat upon the mountain overhanging 

Where Zeus withdrew behind the rolling cloud, 
Where crowned Apollo sang, the phorminx twanging, 
And at Poseidon's word the forests bowed. 

Ay, but that fated day 
When from the plain Olympia passed away ; 
When ceased the oracles, and long unwept 
Amid their fanes the gods deserted fell, 
While sacerdotal ages, as they slept, 

The ruin covered well ! 

The pale Jew flung his cross, thus one has written, 

Among them as they sat at the high feast, 
And saw the gods, before that token smitten, 

Fade slowly, while His presence still increased, 
Until the seas Ionian and ^Egaean 

Gave out a cry that Pan himself was dead, 
And all was still : thenceforth no more the paean, 

No more by men the prayer to Zeus was said. 

Sank, like a falling star, 
Hephaistos in the Lemnian waters far ; 

1 " One after the other the figures described by Pausanias are dragged 
from the earth. Nike has been found ; the head of Kladeos is there ; Myr- 
tilos is announced, and Zeus will soon emerge. This is earnest of what may 
follow." — Despatch to the London Times. 



NEWS FROM OLYMPIA. 335 

The silvery Huntress fled the darkened sky ; 
Dim grew Athene's helm, Apollo's crown ; 
Alpheios' nymphs stood wan and trembling bj 
When Hera's fane went down. 

News ! what news ? Has it in truth then ended, 

The term appointed for that wondrous sleep ? 
Has Earth so well her fairest brood defended 

Within her bosom ? Was their slumber deep 
Not this our dreamless rest that knows no waking, 

But that to which the years are as a day ? 
What ! are they coming back, their prison breaking, — 

These gods of Homer's chant, of Pindar's lay ? 

Are they coming back in might, 
Olympia's gods, to claim their ancient right ? 
Shall then the sacred majesty of old, 
The grace that holy was, the noble- rage, 
Temper our strife, abate our greed for gold, 

Make fine the modern age ? 

Yes, they are coming back, to light returning ! 

Bold are the hearts and void of fear the hands 
That toil, the lords of War and Spoil unurning, 

Or of their sisters fair that break the bands; 
That loose the sovran mistress of desire, 

Queen Aphrodite, to possess the earth 
Once more ; that dare renew dread Hera's ire, 

And rouse old Pan to wantonness of mirth. 

The herald Nike, first, 
From the dim resting-place unfettered burst, 
Winged victor over fate and time and death ! 
Zeus follows next, and all his children then ; 



336 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Phoibos awakes and draws a joyous breath, 
And Love returns to men. 



Ah, let them come, the glorious Immortals, 

Rulers no more, but with mankind to dwell, 
The dear companions of our hearts and portals, 

Voiceless, unworshipped, yet beloved right well ! 
Pallas shall sit enthroned in wisdom's station, 

Eros and Psyche be forever wed, 
And still the primal loveliest creation 

Yield new delight from ancient beauty bred. 

Triumphant as of old, 
Changeless while Art and Song their warrant hold, 
The visions of our childhood haunt us still, 
Still Hellas sways us with her charm supreme. 
The morn is past, but Man has not the will 

To banish yet the dream. 



LE JOUR DU ROSSIGNOL. 

"TH WAS the season of feasts, when the blithe birds 
J-. had met 

In their easternmost arbor, an innocent throng, 

And they made the glad birthday of each gladder yet, 

With the daintiest cheer and the rarest of song. 

What brave tirra-lirras ! But clear amid all, 
At each festival held in the favorite haunt, 

The nightingale's music would quaver and fall, 
And surest and sweetest of all was his chant. 



LE JOUR DU ROSSIGNOL. 337 

At last came the nightingale's fete, and they sought 
To make it the blithefullest tryst of the year, 

Since this was the songster that oftenest caught 
The moment's quick rapture, the joy that is near. 

But, alas ! half in vain the fine chorus they made ; 

Fresh-plumed and all fluttering, and uttering their 
best, 
For silent among them, so etiquette bade, 

To the notes of his praisers sat listening the guest. 

Quel dommage I Must a failure, like theirs, be our 
feast ? 
Must our chorister's voice at his own fete be still ? 
While he thinks : " You are kind. May your tribe be 
increased ; 
But at this I can give you such odds if I will ! " 

What avail, fellow-minstrels, our crotchets and staves, 
Though your tribute, like mine, rises straight from 
the heart, 

Unless while the bough on his laurel-bush waves, 
To his own sangerfest the one guest lends his art ? 

Whose swift wit like his, with which none dares to vie, 
Whose carol so instant, so joyous and true ? 

Sound it cheerly, dear Holmes, for the sun is still high, 
And we 're glad, as he halts, to be out-sung by you. 
IS 



338 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



MERIDIAN. 

AN OLD-FASHIONED POEM. 

THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE YALE CLaSS 
OF 1853. 

Inque brevi spatio mutantur sscla animantum 
Et quasi cursores vitai lampada tradunt. 

Lucretius, De Rer. Nat., Lib. ii. 



THE tryst is kept. How fares it with each one 
At this mid hour, when mariners take the sun 
And cast their reckoning ? when some level height 
Is reached by men who set their strength aright, — ■ 
Who for a little space the firm plateau 
Tread sure and steadfast, yet who needs must know- 
Full soon begins the inevitable slide 
Down westward slopings of the steep divide. 

How stands it, comrades, at this noontide fleet, 
When for an hour we gather to the meet ? 
Like huntsmen, rallied by the winding horn, 
Who seek the shade with trophies lightly borne, 
Remembering their deeds of derring-do — 
What bows were bent, what arrows speeded true. 
All, all have striven, and far apart have strayed : 
Fling down ! fill up the can ! wipe off the blade ! 
Ring out the song ! nor care, in this our mood, 
What hollow echo mocks us from the wood ! 

Or is it with us, haply, as with those 

Each man of whom the morn's long combat knows ? 



MERIDIAN. 



339 



All veterans now : the bugle's far recall 

From the hot strife has sounded sweet to all. 

Welcome the rendezvous beneath the elms, 

The truce, the throwing down of swords and helms ! 

Life is a battle ! How these sayings trite 

Which school-boys write — and know not what they 

write — 
In after years begin to burn and glow ! 
What man is here that has not found it so ? 
Who here is not a soldier of the wars, 
Has not his half-healed wound, his early scars, — 
Has broken not his sword, or from the field ,, 
Borne often naught but honor and his shield ? 
Ah, ye recruits, with flags and arms unstained, 
See by what toil and moil the heights are gained ! 
Learn of our skirmish lost, our ridges won, 
The dust, the thirst beneath the scorching sun ; 
Then see us closer draw — by fate bereft 
Of men we loved — the firm-set column left. 

ii. 
To me the picture that some painter drew 
Makes answer for our past. His throng pursue 
A siren, one that ever smiles before, 
Almost in reach, alluring more and more. 
Old, young, with outstretched hand, with eager eye, 
Fast follow where her winged sandals fly, 
While by some witchery unto each she seems 
His dearest hope, the spirit of his dreams. 
Ah, me ! how like those dupes of Pleasure's chase, 
Yet how unlike, we left our starting-place ! 
Is there not something nobler, far more true, 
In the Ideal, still before our view, 



340 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Upon whose shining course we followed far 

While sank and rose the night and morning star ? 

Ever we saw a bright glance cast behind 

Or heard a word of hope borne down the wind, — 

As yet we see and hear, and follow still 

With faithful hearts and long-enduring will. 

In what weird circle has the enchantress led 
Our footsteps, so that now again they tread 
These walks, and all that on the course befell 
Seems to ourselves a shadow and a spell ? 
Was it the magic of a moment's trance, 
A -scholar's day-dream ? Have we been, perchance, 
Like that bewildered king who dipped his face 
In water — while a dervish paused to trace 
A mystic phrase — and, ere he raised it, lived 
A score of seasons, labored, journeyed, wived 
In a strange city, — Tunis or Algiers, — 
And, after what had seemed so many years, 
Came to himself, and found all this had been 
During the palace-clock's brief noonday din ? 

For here the same blithe robins seem to house 
In the elm-forest, underneath whose boughs 
We too were sheltered ; nay, we cannot mark 
The five-and-twenty rings, beneath the bark, 
That tell the growth of some historic tree, 
Since we, too, were a part of Arcady. 
And in our trance, negari, should the bell 
Speak out the hour, non potest quin, 't were well 
The upper or the lower room to seek 
For Tully's Latin, Homer's rhythmic Greek ; — 
Yet were it well ? ay, brothers, if, alack, 
For this one day the shadow might go back! 



MERIDIAN. 34] 

Ah, no ! with doubtful faces each on each 
We look, we speak with altered, graver speech : 
The spell is gone ! We know what 't is to wake 
From an illusive dream, at morning's break, 
That we again are dark-haired, buoyant, young, — 
Scanning, once more, our spring-time mates among, 
The grand hexameter — that anthem free 
Of the pursuing, loud-resounding sea, — 
To wake, anon, and know another day 
Already speeds for one whose hairs are gray, — 
In this swift change to lose a third of life 
Lopped by the stroke of Memory's ruthless knife, 
And feel, though naught go ill, it is a pain 
That youth, lost youth, can never come again ! 

Were the dream real, or should we idly go 
To yonder halls and strive to make it so, 
There listening to the voices that rehearse, 
Like ours of old, the swift Ionic verse, 
What silvery speech could now for us restore 
The cadence that we thought to hear once more ? 
The low, calm utterance of him who first 
Our faltering minds to clearer knowledge nursed, — 
The perfect teacher, who endured our raw 
Harsh bleatings with a pang we never saw ; 
Whose bearing was so apt we scarcely knew, 
At first, the wit that lit him through and througTi, 
Strength's surplusage ; nor, after many a day 
Had taught us, rated well the heart that lay 
Beneath his speech, nor guessed how brave a soul 
In that frail body dwelt with fine control : 
Alas, no longer dwells ! Time's largest theft 
Was that which learning and the world bereft 
Of this pure scholar, — one who had been great 
In every walk where led by choice or fate, 



342 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Were not his delicate yearnings still represt 
Obeying duty's every-day behest. 
He shrank from note, yet might have worn at ease 
The garb whose counterfeit a sad world sees 
Round many a dolt who gains, and deems it fame, 
One tenth the honor due to Hadley's name. 

Too soon the years, gray Time's relentless breed, 

Have claimed our Pascal. He is theirs indeed ; 

Yet three remain of the ancestral mould, 

Abreast, like them who kept the bridge of old : 

The true, large-hearted man so many found 

A helpful guardian, stalwart, sane, and sound ; 

And he, by sure selection upward led, 

Whom now we reverence as becomes the Head, — 

The sweet polemic, pointing shafts divine 

With kindly satire, — latest of the line 

That dates from godly Pierson. No less dear, 

And more revered with each unruffled year, 

That other Grecian : he who stands aside 

Watching the streams that gather and divide. 

Alcestis' love, the Titan's deathless will, 

We read of in his text, and drank our fill 

At Plato's spring. Now, from his sacred shade, 

Still on the outer world his hand is laid 

In use and counsel. Whom the nation saw 

Most fit for Heaven could best expound Earth's law. 

His wise, kind eyes behold — nor are they loth — 
The larger scope, the quarter-century's growth : 
How blooms the Mother with unwrinkled brow. 
To whom her wandering sons, returning now. 
Come not alone, but bring their sons to prove 
That children's children have a share of love. 



MERIDIAN. 343 

Through them she proffers us a second chance ; 
With their young eyes we see her hands advance 
To crown the sports once banished from her sight ; 
With them we see old wrong become the right, 
Tread pleasant halls, a healthy life behold 
Less stinted than the cloister-range of old — 
When the last hour of morning sleep was lost 
And prayer was sanctified by dusk and frost, 
And hungry tutors taught a class unfed 
That a full stomach meant an empty head. 
For them a tenth Muse, Beauty, here and there 
Has touched the landmarks, making all more fair ; — 
We knew her not, save in our stolen dreams 
Or stumbling song, but now her likeness gleams 
Through chapel aisles, and in the house where Art 
Has builded for her praise its shrines apart. 

Now the new Knowledge, risen like a sun, 
Makes bright for them the hidden ways that none 
Revealed to us ; or haply would dethrone 
The gods of old, and rule these hearts alone 
From yonder stronghold. By unnumbered strings 
She draws our sons to her discoverings, — 
Traces the secret paths of force, the heat 
That makes the stout heart give its patient beat, 
Follows the stars through sons far and free 
And shows what forms have been and are to be. 

Such things are plain to these we hither brought, 
More strange and varied than ourselves were taught ; 
But has the iris of the murmuring shell 
A charm the less because we know full well 
Sweet Nature's trick ? Is Music's dying fall 
Less finely blent with strains antiphonal / 



344 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Because within a harp's quick vibratings 

We count the tremor of the spirit's wings ? 

There is a path by Science yet untrod 

Where with closed eyes we walk to find out God ! 

Still, still, the unattained ideal lures, 

The spell evades, the splendor yet endures ; 

False sang the poet, — there is no good in rest, 

And Truth still leads us to a deeper quest. 

in. 
But Alma Mater, with her mother-eyes 
Seeing us graver grown if not more wise, — 
She calls us back, dear comrades — ah, how dear, 
And dearer than when each to each was near ! 
Time thickens blood ! Enough to know that one 
Our classmate was and is, and is her son ; — 
She looks unto the East, the South, the West, 
Asking, " Now who have kept my maxims best ? 
Who have most nearly held within their grasp 
The fluttering robe that each essayed to clasp ? " 
Can ye not answer, brothers, even as I, 
That still in front the vision seems to fly. — 
More light and fleet her shining footsteps burn, 
And speed the most when most she seems to turn ? 
And some have fallen, fallen from our band 
Just as we thought to see them lay the hand 
Upon her scarf : we know their precious names, 
Their hearts, their work, their sorrows, and their 

fames. 
Few gifts the brief years brought them, yet how few 
Fell to the living as the lots we drew ! 
But some, who most were baffled, later found 
Capricious Fortune's arms a moment wound 
About them; some, who sought her on one side, 
Beheld her reach them by a compass wide. 



MERIDIAN. 345 

What then is Life ? or what Success may be 
Who, who can tell ? who for another see ? 
From those, perchance, that closest seem to hold 
Her love, her strength, her laurels, or her gold, 
In this meridian hour she far has sped 
And left them but her phantom mask instead. 

A grave, sweet poet in a song has told 

Of one, a king, who in his palace old 

Hung up a bell ; and placed its cord anear 

His couch, — that thenceforth, when the court should 

hear 
Its music, all might know the king had rung 
With his own hand, and that its silver tongue 
Gave out the words of joy he wished to -say, 
" I have been wholly happy on this day ! " 
Joy's full perfection never to him came ; 
Voiceless the bell, year after year the same, 
Till, in his death-throes, round the cord his hand 
Gathered — and there was mourning in the land. 

I pray you, search the wistful past, and tell 

Which of you all could ring the happy bell ! 

The treasure-trove, the gifts we ask of Fate, 

Come far apart, come mildewed, come too late. 

What says the legend ? " All that man desires 

Greatly at morn he gains ere day expires ; " 

But Age craves not the fruits that gladden Youth, — 

It sits among its vineyards, full of ruth, 

Finding the owner's right to what is best 

Of little worth without the seeker's zest. 

Yet something has been gained. Not all a waste 
The light-winged years have vanished in their haste, 



346 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 

Howbeit their gift was scant of what we thought, 
So much we thought not of they slowly wrought ! 
Not all a waste the insight and the zeal 
We gathered here : these surely make for weal ; 
The current sets for him who swims upbuoyed 
By the trained skill, with all his arts employed. 
Coy Fortune may disdain our noblest cares, 
The good she gives at last comes unawares : — 
Long, long in vain, — with patience, worth, and love, - 
To do her task the enchanted princess strove, 
Till in the midnight pitying fairies crept 
Unraveling the tangle while she slept. 

This, then, the boon our Age of Wisdom brings, — 
A knowledge of the real worth of things : 
How poor, how good, is wealth ; how surely fame 
And beauty must return to whence they came, 
Yet not for this less beautiful and rare — 
It is their evanescence makes them fair 
And worth possession. Ours the age still strong 
With passions, that demand not curb nor thong ; 
And ours the age not old enough to set 
Youth's joys above their proper worth, nor yet 
So young as still to trust its empery more 
Than unseen hands which lead to fortune's door. 
For most have done the best they could, and all 
The reign of law has compassed like a wall ; 
Something accrued to each, and each has seen 
A Power that works for good in life's demesne. 
In our own time, to many a masquerade 
The hour has come when masks aside were laid : 
We 've seen the shams die out, the poor pretense 
Cut off at last by truthis keen instruments, 
The ignoble fashion wane and pass away, — 



MERIDIAN. 347 

The fine return a second time, to stay, — 
The knave, the quack, and all the meaner brood, 
Go surely down, by the strong years subdued, 
And, in the quarter-century's capping-race, 
Strength, talent, honor, take and hold their place. 

More glad, you say, the song I might have sung 
In the free, careless days when all were young! 
Now, long deferred, the sullen stroke of time 
Has given a graver key, a deeper chime, 
That the late singer of this strain might prove 
Himself less keen for honors, more for love, 
And in the music of your answer find 
The charms that life to further action bind. 
The Past is past ; survey its course no more ; 
Henceforth our glasses sweep the further shore. 
Five lustra, briefer than those gone, remain, 
And then — a white-haired few shall meet again, 
Lifting their heads that long have learned to droop, 
And hear some sweeter minstrel of our group. 
But stay ! which one of us, alone, shall dine 
At the Last Shadowy Banquet of the line ? 
Who knows ? who does not in his heart reply 
" It matters not, so that it be not I." 



TRANSLATIONS. 



THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 




TRANSLATIONS. 



I. THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 

FROM HOMER. 
[Odyssey, XL, 385-456.] 
ODYSSEUS IN HADES. 

AFTERWARD, soon as the chaste Persephone 
hither and thither 3 8 5 

Now had scattered afar the slender shades of the 

women, 
Came the sorrowing ghost of Agamemnon Atreides ; 
Round whom thronged, besides, the souls of the others 

who also 
Died, and met their fate, with him in the house of Ai~ 

gisthos. 
He, then, after he drank of the dark blood, instantly 

knew me, — 3go - 

Ay, and he wailed aloud, and plenteous tears was shed- 
ding, 
Toward me reaching hands and eagerly longing to 

touch me ; ki 

But he was shorn of strength, nor longer came at his 

bidding 



352 TRANSLA TIONS. 

That great force which once abode in his pliant mem- 
bers. 
Seeing him thus, I wept, and my heart was laden with 

P^y, 395 

And, uplifting my voice, in wingdd words I addressed 
him : 
"King of men, Agamemnon, thou glorious son of 
Atreus, 

Say, in what wise did the doom of prostrate death over- 
come thee ? 

Was it within thy ships thou wast subdued by Poseidon 

Rousing the dreadful blast of winds too hard to be 
mastered, 4 oo 

Or on the firm-set land did banded foemen destroy thee 

Cutting their oxen off, and their flocks so fair, or, it 
may be, 

While in a town's defence, or in that of women, con- 
tending ? " 
Thus I spake, and he, replying, said to me straight- 
way : 

" Nobly-born and wise Odysseus, son of Laertes, 4 o 5 

Neither within my ships was I subdued by Poseidon 

Rousing the dreadful blast of winds too hard to be mas- 
tered, 

Nor on the firm-set land did banded foemen destroy 
me, — 

Nay, but death and my doom were well contrived by 
Aigisthos, 

Who, with my curse'd wife, at his own house bidding me 
welcome, 4I0 

Fed me, and slew me, as one might slay an ox at the 
manger ! 

So, by a death most wretched, I died ; and all my com- 
panions 



THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 353 

Round me were slain off-hand, like white-toothed swine 
that are slaughtered 

Thus, when some lordly man, abounding in power and 
riches, 

Orders a wedding - feast, or a frolic, or mighty ca- 
rousal. 4IS 

Thou indeed hast witnessed the slaughter of number- 
less heroes 

Massacred, one by one, in the battle's heat ; but with 
pity 

All thy heart had been full, if thou hadst seen what I 
tell thee, — 

How in the hall we lay among the wine-jars, and 
under 

Tables laden with food ; and how the pavement, on all 
sides, 420 

Swam with blood ! And I heard the dolorous cry of 
Kassandra, 

Priam's daughter, whom treacherous Klytaimnestra 
anear me 

Slew ; and upon the ground I fell in my death-throes, 
vainly 

Reaching out hands to my sword, while the shameless 
woman departed, 

Nor did she even stay to press her hands on my eye- 
lids, 4 2 S 

No, nor to close my mouth, although I was passing to 
Hades. 

O, there is naught more dire, more insolent than a 
woman 

After the very thought of deeds like these has pos- 
sessed her, — 

One who would dare to devise an act so utterly shame- 
less, 



354 TRANSLA TIONS. 

Lying in wait to slay her wedded lord. I bethought 
me, 430 

Verily, home to my children and servants giving me 
welcome 

Safe to return ; but she has wrought for herself con- 
fusion, 

Plotting these grievous woes, and for other women here- 
after, 

Even for those, in sooth, whose thoughts are set upon 
goodness." 
Thus he spake, and I, in turn replying, addressed 
him : 435 

" Heavens ! how from the first has Zeus the thunderer 
hated, 

All for the women's wiles, the brood of Atreus ! What 
numbers 

Perished in quest of Helen, — and Klytaimnestra, the 
meanwhile, 

Wrought in her soul this guile for thee afar on thy 
journey." 
Thus I spake, and he, replying, said to me straight- 
way : 440 

" See that thou art not, then, like me too mild to thy 
helpmeet ; 

Nor to her ear reveal each secret matter thou knowest, 

Tell her the part, forsooth, and see that the rest shall 
be hidden. 

Nathless, not unto thee will come such murder, Odys- 
seus, 

Dealt by a wife ; for wise indeed, and true in her pur- 
pose, 445 

Noble Penelope is, the child of Ikarios. Truly, 

She it was whom we left, a fair young bride, when we 
started 



THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 355 

Off for the wars ; and then an infant lay at her bosom, 

One who now, methinks, in the list of men must be 
seated, — 

Blest indeed ! ah, yes, for his well - loved father, re- 
turning, 4SO 

Him shall behold, and the son shall clasp the sire, as is 
fitting. 

Not unto me to feast my eyes with the sight of my off- 
spring 

Granted the wife of my bosom, but first of life she be- 
reft me. 

Therefore I say, moreover, and charge thee well to 
remember, 

Unto thine own dear land steer thou thy vessel in 
secret, 4SS 

Not in the light ; since faith can be placed in woman 
no longer." 



II. THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 

FROM AISCHYLOS. 

[aischvlos, Agamemnon, I266-I3I8. 1 ] 
Chorus — Kassandra — Agamemnon. 



O WRETCHED woman indeed, and O most wise, 
Much hast thou said ; but if thou knowest well 
Thy doom, why, like a heifer, by the Gods 
Led to the altar, tread so brave of soul ? 

1 Text of Paley. 



356 TRANS LA TIONS. 

KASSANDRA. 

There's no escape, O friends, the time is full. 

CHORUS. 

Nathless, the last to enter gains in time. 

KASSANDRA. 

The day has come ; little I make by flight. 

CHORUS. 

Thou art bold indeed, and of a daring spirit ! 

KASSANDRA. 

Such sayings from the happy none hath heard. 

CHORUS. 

Grandly to die is still a grace to mortals. 

KASSANDRA. 

Alas, my sire, — thee and thy noble brood ! 

{She starts back from the entrance.") 
CHORUS. 

How now ? What horror turns thee back again ? 

KASSANDRA. 

Faugh ! faugh ! 

CHORUS. 

Why such a cry ? There 's something chills thy soul ! 

KASSANDRA. 

The halls breathe murder, — ay, they drip with blood. 

CHORUS. 

How ? 'T is the smell of victims at the hearth. 



THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 357 

KASSANDRA. 

Nay, but the exhalation of the tomb ! 

CHORUS. 

No Syrian dainty, this, of which thou speakest. 

kassandra (at the portal). 
Yet will I in the palace wail my own 
And Agamemnon's fate ! Enough of life ! 
Alas, O friends ! 

Yet not for naught I quail, not as a bird 
Snared in the bush : bear witness, though I die, 
A woman's slaughter shall requite my own, 
And, for this man ill-yoked, a man shall fall ! 
Thus prays of you a stranger, at death's door. 

CHORUS. 

Lost one, I rue with thee thy foretold doom ! 

kassandra. 
Once more I fain would utter words, once more, — 
'T is my own threne ! And I invoke the Sun, 
By his last beam, that my detested foes 
May pay no less to them who shall avenge me, 
Than I who die an unresisting slave ! 

{Ske enters the palace.) 



Of Fortune was never yet enow 
To mortal man ; and no one ever 
Her presence from his house would sever 
And point, and say, " Come no more nigh 
Unto our King granted the Gods on high 



358 TRANSLATIONS. 

That Priam's towers should bow, 
And homeward, crowned of Heaven, hath he come ; 
But now if, for the ancestral blood that lay 
At his doors, he falls, — and the dead, that cursed his 
home, 

He, dying, must in full requite, — 
What manner of man is one that would not pray 

To be born with a good attendant Sprite ? 

{An outcry within the palace.) 
AGAMEMNON. 

Woe 's me ! I am stricken a deadly blow within ! 

CHORUS. 

Hark ! Who is 't cries " a blow " ? Who meets his 
death ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

Woe 's me ! again ! a second time I am stricken ! 

CHORUS. 

The deed, methinks, from the King's cry, is done. 
Quick, let us see what help may be in counsel ! 



2. 

[Agamemnon, I343-I377-] 
Enter Klytaimnestra, from the Palace. 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Now, all this formal outcry having vent, 
I shall not blush to speak the opposite. 
How should one, plotting evil things for foes, 



THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 359 

Encompass seeming friends with such a bane 

Of toils ? it were a height too great to leap ? 

Not without full prevision came, though late, 

To me this crisis of an ancient feud. 

And here, the deed being done, I stand — even where 

I smote him ! nor deny that thus I did it, 

So that he could not flee nor ward off doom. 

A seamless net, as round a fish, I cast 

About him, yea, a deadly wealth of robe ; 

Then smote him twice ; and with a double cry 

He loosed his limbs ; and to him fallen I gave 

Yet a third thrust, a grace to Hades, lord 

Of the underworld and guardian of the dead. 

So, falling, out he gasps his soul, and out 

He spurts a sudden jet of blood, that smites 

Me with a sable rain of gory dew, — 

Me, then no less exulting than the field 

In the sky's gift, while bursts the pregnant ear ! 

Things being thus, old men of Argos, joy, 

If joy ye can ; — I glory in the deed ! 

And if 't were seemly ever yet to pour 

Libation to the dead, 't were most so now ; 

Most meet that one, who poured for his own home 

A cup of ills, returning, thus should drain it ! 



Shame on thy tongue ! how bold of mouth thou art 
That vauntest such a speech above thy husband ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Ye try me as a woman loose of soul ; 
But I with dauntless heart avow to you 
Well knowing — and whether ye choose to praise or 
blame 



360 TRANSLATIONS. 

I care not — this is Agamemnon ; yea, 

My husband ; yea, a corpse, of this right hand, 

This craftsman sure, the handiwork ! Thus stands 



3- 

\Agamemnon, 1466-1507.] 
Chorus — Semi-chorus — Klytaimnestra. 

CHORUS. 

Woe ! Woe ! 
King ! O how shall I weep for thy dying ? 

What shall my fond heart say anew ? 
Thou in the web of the spider art lying, 

Breathing out life by a death she shall rue. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas ! alas for this slavish couch ! By a sword 

Two-edged, by a hand untrue, 
Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Thou sayest this deed was mine alone ; 

But I bid thee call me not 
The wife of Agamemnon's bed ; 
'T was the ancient fell Alastor 1 of Atreus' throne, 
The lord of a horrid feast, this crime begot, 
Taking the shape that seemed the wife of the dead, — 

His sure revenge, I wot, 
A victim ripe hath claimed for the young that bled. 

1 The Evil Genius, the Avenger. 



THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 36 1 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Who shall bear witness now, — 
Who of this murder, now, thee guiltless hold ? 
How sayest thou ? How ? 
Yet the fell Alastor may have holpen, I trow : 
Still is dark Ares driven 
Down currents manifold 
Of kindred blood, wherever judgment is given, 
And he comes to avenge the children slain of old, 
And their thick gore cries to Heaven ! 



Woe ! Woe ! 
King ! O how shall I weep for thy dying ? 

What shall my fond heart say anew ? 
Thou in the web of the spider art lying, 

Breathing out life by a death she shall rue ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas ! alas for this slavish couch ! By a sword 

Two-edged, by a hand untrue, 
Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Hath he not subtle Ate brought 

Himself, to his kingly halls ? 
'T was on our own dear offspring, — yea, 
On Iphigeneia, wept for still, he wrought 
The doom that cried for the doom by which he falls. 
O, let him not in Hades boast, I say, 
For 'tis the sword that calls, 
Even for that foul deed, his soul away ! 
16 



LATER POEMS. 
9^0 




LATER POEMS 



THE SONGSTER. 

A MIDSUMMER CAROL. 
I. 

WITHIN our summer hermitage 
I have an aviary, — 
'T is but a little, rustic cage, 
That holds a golden-winged Canary, — 
A bird with no companion of his kind. 
But when the warm south-wind 
Blows, from rathe meadows, over 
The honey-scented clover, 
I hang him in the porch, that he may hear 
The voices of the bobolink and thrush, 

The robin's joyous gush, 
The bluebird's warble, and the tunes of all 
Glad matin songsters in the fields anear. 

Then, as the blithe responses vary, 



366 LATER POEMS. 

And rise anew, and fall, 

In every hush 
He answers them again, 
With his own wild, reliant strain, 
As if he breathed the air of sweet Canary. 



ii. 
Bird, bird of the golden wing, 
Thou lithe, melodious thing ! 

Where hast thy music found ? 
What fantasies of vale and vine, 
Of glades where orchids intertwine, 
Of palm-trees, garlanded and crowned, 
And forests flooded deep with sound, — 
What high imagining 
Hath made this carol thine ? 
By what instinct art thou bound 
To all rare harmonies that be 
In those green islands of the sea, 
Where thy radiant, wildwood kin 
Their madrigals at morn begin, 
Above the rainbow and the roar 
Of the long billow from the Afric shore ? 

Asking other guerdon 
None, than Heaven's light, 

Holding thy crested head aright, 
Thy melody's sweet burden 
Thou dost proudly utter, 

With many an ecstatic flutter 

And ruffle of thy tawny throat 
For each delicious note. 

— Art thou a waif from Paradise, 



THE SONGSTER. 367 

In some fine moment wrought 
By an artist of the skies, 

Thou winged, cherubic Thought ? 

Bird of the amber beak, 

Bird of the golden wing ! 
Thy dower is thy carolling ; 

Thou hast not far to seek 

Thy bread, nor needest wine 
To make thine utterance divine ; 
Thou art canopied and clothed 

And unto Song betrothed ! 
In thy lone aerial cage 
Thou hast thine ancient heritage ; 
There is no task-work on thee laid 
But to rehearse the ditties thou hast made ; 

Thou hast a lordly store, 
And, though thou scatterest them free, 

Art richer than before, 
Holding in fee 
The glad domain of minstrelsy. 



in. 
Brave songster, bold Canary ! 
Thou art not of thy listeners wary, 
Art not timorous, nor chary 
Of quaver, trill, and tone, 
Each perfect and thine own ; 
But renewest, shrill or soft, 
Thy greeting to the upper skies, 
Chanting thy latest song aloft 
With no tremor or disguise. 
Thine is a music that defies 



368 



LATER POEMS. 

The envious rival near ; 
Thou hast no fear 
Of the day's vogue, the scornful critic's sneer. 



Would, O wisest bard, that now 

I could cheerly sing as thou ! 
Would I might chant the thoughts which on me throng 

For the very joy of song ! 

Here, on the written page, 

I falter, yearning to impart 
The vague and wandering murmur of my heart, 

Haply a little to assuage 

This human restlessness and pain, 
And half forget my chain : 

Thou, unconscious of thy cage, 

Showerest music everywhere ; 
Thou hast no care 
But to pour out the largesse thou hast won 

From the south -wind and the sun ; 

There are no prison-bars 
Betwixt thy tricksy spirit and the stars. 

When from its delicate clay 
Thy little life shall pass away, 
Thou wilt not meanly die, 
Nor voiceless yield to silence and decay ; 
But triumph still in art 
And act thy minstrel-part, 
Lifting a last, long paean 
To the unventured empyrean. 
— So bid the world go by, 
And they who list to thee aright, 
Seeing thee fold thy wings and fall, shall say : 
" The Songster perished of his own delight ! " 






CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 



CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 

OUT, out, Old Age ! aroint ye ! 
I fain would disappoint ye, 
Nor wrinkled grow and learned 
Before I am inurned. 
Ruthless the Hours and hoary, 
That scatter ills before ye ! 
Thy touch is pestilential, 
Thy lays are penitential ; 
With stealthy steps thou stealest 
And life's hot tide congealest ; 
Before thee vainly flying 
We are already dying. 
Why must the blood grow colder, 
And men and maidens older ? 
Bring not thy maledictions, 
Thy grewsome, grim afflictions, — 
Thy bodings bring not hither 
To make us blight and wither. 
When this thy frost hath bound us, 
All fairer things around us 
Seem Youth's divine extortion 
In which we have no portion. 
" Fie, Senex ! " saith a lass now, 
" What need ye of a glass now ? 
Though flowers of May be springing 
And I my songs am singing, 
Thy blood no whit the faster 
Doth flow, my ancient Master ! " 
Age is by Youth delighted, 
Youth is by Age affrighted ; 



369 



370 



LATER POEMS. 

Blithe sunny May and joysome 
Still finds December noisome. 
Alack ! a guest unbidden, 
Howe'er our feast be hidden, 
Doth enter with the feaster 
And make a Lent of Easter ! 
I would thou wert not able 
To seat thee at our table ; 
I would that altogether 
From this thy wintry weather, 
Since Youth and Love must leave us, 
Death might at once retrieve us. 
Old wizard, ill betide ye ! 
I cannot yet abide ye ! 

Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye ! 
There 's naught on Earth above ye I 
Thou purling bird uncaged 
That never wilt grow aged, 
To whom each day is giving 
Increase of joyous living ! 
Soft words to thee are spoken, 
For thee strong vows are broken, 
All loves and lovers cluster, 
To bask them in thy lustre. 
Ah, girlhood, pout and dimple, 
Half hid beneath the wimple ! 
Ah, boyhood, blithe and cruel, 
Whose heat doth need no fuel, 
No help of wine and spices 
And frigid Eld's devices ! 
All pleasant things ye find you, 
And to your sweet selves bind you. 
For you alone the motion 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Of brave ships on the ocean ; 

All stars for you are shining, 

All wreaths your foreheads twining ; 

All joys, your joys decreeing, 

Are portions of your being, — 

All fairest sights your features, 

Ye selfish, soulful creatures ! 

Sing me no more distiches 

Of glory, wisdom, riches ; 

Tell me no beldame's story 

Of wisdom, wealth, and glory ! 

To Youth these are a wonder, — 

To Age a corpse-light under 

The tomb with rusted portal 

Of that which seemed immortal. 

I, too, in Youth's dear fetter, 

Will love my foeman better, — 

Ay, though his ill I study, — 

So he be young and ruddy, 

Than comrade true and golden, 

So he be waxen olden. 

Ah, winsome Youth, stay by us ! 

I prithee, do not fly us ! 

Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye ! 

There 's naught on Earth above ye ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
(from an unfinished drama.) 

THOU art mine, thou hast given thy word ; 
Close, close in my arms thou art clinging ; 
Alone for my ear thou art singing 
A song which no stranger hath heard : 



371 









372 LATER POEMS. 

But afar from me yet, like a bird, 
Thy soul, in some region unstirred, 
On its mystical circuit is winging. 



Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own ; 
Henceforth we are mingled forever : 
But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor — 

Though round thee my garlands are thrown, 

And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone — 

To master the spell that alone 
My hold on thy being can sever. 

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me ! 
But thy soul, when I strive to be near it — 
The innermost fold of thy spirit — 
Is as far from my grasp, is as free, 
As the stars from the mountain-tops be, 
As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, 

From the portionless king that would wear it. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. 

WHITHER away, Robin, 
Whither away ? 
Is it through envy of the maple-leaf, 
Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, 
Thou wilt not stay ? 
The summer days were long, yet all too brief 
The happy season thou hast been our guest : 
Whither away? 



' 5, J 

1 

i J ?l 1 










ill ',,",,';! *-■ ',!<;'.,' 


to ■ 








HYP ATI A. 



373 



Whither away, Bluebird, 
Whither away ? 
The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky 
Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, 
The hue of May. 
Warbler, why speed thy southern flight ? ah, why, 
Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring ? 
Whither away ? 

Whither away, Swallow, 
Whither away ? 
Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, 

Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest ? 
Not one short day ? 
Wilt thou — as if thou human wert — go forth 
And wanton far from them who love thee best ? 
Whither away ? 



HYPATIA. 

,r I " IS fifteen hundred years, you say, 

■*- Since that fair teacher died 
In learned Alexandria 

By the stone altar's side : — 
The wild monks slew her, as she lay 

At the feet of the Crucified. 

Yet in a prairie-town, one night, 

I found her lecture-hall, 
Where bench and dais stood aright, 

And statues graced the wall, 
And pendent brazen lamps the light 

Of classic days let fall. 






374 



LATER POEMS. 

A throng that watched the speaker's face, 

And on her accents hung, 
Was gathered there : the strength, the grace 

Of lands where life is young 
Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race 

From old Pelasgia sprung. 

No civic crown the sibyl wore, 

Nor academic tire, 
But shining skirts, that trailed the floor 

And made her stature higher ; 
A written scroll the lecturn bore, 

And flowers bloomed anigh her. 

The wealth her honeyed speech had won 

Adorned her in our sight ; 
The silkworm for her sake had spun 

His cincture, day and night ; 
With broider-work and Honiton 

Her open sleeves were bright. 

But still Hypatia's self I knew, 
And saw, with dreamy wonder, 

The form of her whom Cyril slew 
(See Kingsley's novel, yonder) 

Some fifteen centuries since, 't is true, 
And half a world asunder. 

Her hair was coifed Athenian -wise, 
With one loose tress down-flowing ; 

Apollo's rapture lit her eyes, 
His utterance bestowing, — 

A silver flute's clear harmonies 
On which a god was blowing. 



HYP ATI A. 

Yet not of Plato's sounding spheres, 

And universal Pan, 
She spoke ; but searched historic years, 

The sisterhood to scan 
Of women, — girt with ills and fears, — 

Slaves to the tyrant, Man. 

Their crosiered banner she unfurled, 
And onward pushed her quest 

Through golden ages of a world 
By their deliverance blest : — 

At all who stay their hands she hurled 
Defiance from her breast. 

I saw her burning words infuse 
A warmth through many a heart, 

As still, in bright successive views, 
She drew her sex's part ; 

Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse, 
Of work, and song, and art. 

Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say 

The later is the less ? 
Our Sappho sang but yesterday, 

Of whom two climes confess 
Heaven's flame within her wore away 

Her earthly loveliness. 

So let thy wild heart ripple on, 
Brave girl, through vale and city ! 

Spare, of its listless moments, one 
To this, thy poet's ditty ; 

Nor long forbear, when all is done, 
Thine own sweet self to pity. 



375 



376 LATER POEMS. 

The priestess of the Sestian tower, 
Whose knight the sea swam over, 

Among her votaries' gifts no flower 
Of heart's-ease could discover: 

She died, but in no evil hour, 
Who, dying, clasped her lover. 

The rose-tree has its perfect life 
When the full rose is blown ; 

Some height of womanhood the wife 
Beyond thy dream has known ; 

Set not thy head and heart at strife 
To keep thee from thine own. 

Hypatia ! thine essence rare 
The rarer joy should merit : 

Possess thee of that common share 
Which lesser souls inherit : 

All gods to thee their garlands bear, — 
Take one from Love and wear it ! 



THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. 

OLONG are years of waiting, when lovers' hearts 
are bound 
By words that hold in life and death, and last the half- 
world round ; 
Long, long for him who wanders far and strives with 

all his main, 
But crueller yet for her who bides at home and hides 
her pain ! 
And lone are the homes of New England. 



THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. 



377 



'T was in the mellow summer I heard her sweet reply; 
The barefoot lads and lassies a-berrying went by ; 
The locust dinned amid the trees ; the fields were high 

with corn ; 
The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships were 

onward borne : 
And blue are the skies of New England. 

Her lips were like the raspberries ; her cheek was soft 

and fair, 
And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her hair; 
A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing 

loth 
To hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me 

there her troth ; 
And true is the word of New England. 

When September brought the golden-rod, and maples 
burned like fire, 

And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and 
higher, 

And large and red among the stacks the ripened pump- 
kins shone, — 

One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone ; 
And sweet are the lanes of New England. 

We loved each other truly ! hard, hard it was to part ; 
But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay next 

my heart. 
" 'T is but a year, my darling," I said ; " in one short 

year, 
When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my 

Katie here " ; 
And brave is the hope of New England. 



378 LATER POEMS. 

I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden State 
With head and hand I planned and toiled, and early 

worked and late ; 
But luck was all against me, and sickness on me lay, 
And ere I got my strength again 't was many a weary 

day ; 
And long are the thoughts of New England. 

And many a day, and many a month, and thrice the 

rolling year, 
I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never yet 

more near. 
My Katie's letters told me that she kept her promise 

true, 
But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few ; 
And stern is the pride of New England. 

But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope 

deferred ; 
No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest 

heard ; 
For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter 

blew, 
So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced 

her through ; 
And chill are the blasts of New England. 

At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore, 
And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love 

once more ; 
When a kinsman's letter reached me : " Come at once, 

or come too late ! 
Your Katie's strength is failing ; if you love her, do not 

wait : 
Come back to the elms of New England." 



THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. 



379 



O, it wrung my heart with sorrow ! I left all else 
behind, 

And straight for dear New England I speeded like the 
wind. 

The day and night were blended till I reached my boy- 
hood's home, 

And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not 
sooner come ; 
And gray are the rocks of New England. 

I could not think 't was Katie, who sat before me there 
Reading her Bible — 't was my gift — and pillowed in 

her chair. 
A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand, — 
She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white 

hand ! 
But strong is the love of New England. 

Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her 

brow; 
She used to be a joyous girl, — but seemed an angel 

now, — 
Heaven's darling, mine no longer ; yet in her hazel eyes 
The same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed my 

bitter cries : 
And pure is the faith of New England. 

A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any rose 
That drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it 

goes. 
My life was darkened when at last her large eyes 

closed in death, 
And I heard my own name whispered as she drew her 

parting breath ; 
Still, still was the heart of New England. 



3 SO LATER POEMS. 

It was a woful funeral the coming sabbath-day; 

We bore her to the barren hill on which the graveyard 

lay, 
And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we 

might was done, 
Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest 

one ; 
And drear are the hills of New England. 

I gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November 
sky, 

And knew that buried deep with her my heart hence- 
forth would lie ; 

And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still 
thither go 

To Katie, lying in her grave beneath the winter snow ; 
And cold are the snows of New England. 



THE DISCOVERER. 

I HAVE a little kinsman 
Whose earthly summers are but three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all their peers together ! 
He is a brave discoverer, 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 
Ay, he has travelled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark, 



: 



THE DISCOVERER. 38 1 

Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 



Suddenly, in his fair young hour, 
Came one who bore a flower, 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 

With this command : 
" Henceforth thou art a rover ! 
Thou must make a voyage far, 
Sail beneath the evening star, 
And a wondrous land discover." 
— With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 
How he fares, or answer well 
What the little one has found 
Since he left us, outward bound ? 
Would that he might return ! 
Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways part. 
Hush ! does not the baby this way bring, 
To lay beside this severed curl, 

Some starry offering 
Of chrysolite or pearl ? 

Ah, no ! not so ! 
We may follow on his track, 

But he comes not back. 

And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 



382 LATER POEMS. 

Of climes his elders do not know. 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand years, 
More than in the groves is taught, 
Or from furthest Indies brought ; 
He knows, perchance, how spirits fare, — 
What shapes the angels wear, 
What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach, — 
And his eyes behold 
Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. 



SISTER BEATRICE. 

A LEGEND FROM THE " SERMONES DISCIPULI " OF JEAN 
HEROLT, THE DOMINICAN, A. D. 1518. 

A CLOISTER tale, — a strange and ancient thing 
Lonac since on vellum writ in gules and or : 
And why should Chance to me this trover bring 

From the grim dust-heap of forgotten lore, 
And not to that gray bard still measuring 

His laurelled years by music's golden score, 
Nor to some comrade who like him has caught 
The charm of lands by me too long unsought ? 

Why not to one who, with a steadfast eye, 
Ingathering her shadow and her sheen, 

Saw Venice as she is, and, standing nigh, 

Drew from the life that old, dismantled queen ? 

Or to the poet through whom I well descry 
Castile, and the Campeador's demesne ? 



SISTER BEATRICE. 383 

Or to that eager one whose quest has found 
Each place of long renown, the world around ; 

Whose foot has rested firm on either hill, — 

The sea-girt height where glows the midnight sun, 

And wild Parnassus ; whose melodious skill 
Has left no song untried, no wreath unwon ? 

Why not to these ? Yet, since by Fortune's will 
This quaint task given me I must not shun, 

My verse shall render, fitly as it may, 

An old church legend, meet for Christmas Day. 

Once on a time (so read the monkish pages), 
Within a convent — that doth still abide 

Even as it stood in those devouter ages, 
Near a fair city, by the highway's side — 

There dwelt a sisterhood of them whose wages 
Are stored in heaven : each a virgin bride 

Of Christ, and bounden meekly to endure 

In faith, and works, and chastity most pure. 

A convent, and within a summer-land, 
Like that of Browning and Boccaccio ! 

Years since, my greener fancy would have planned 
Its station thus : it should have had, I trow, 

A square and flattened bell-tower, that might stand 
Above deep-windowed buildings long and low, 

Closed all securely by a vine-clung wall, 

And shadowed on one side by cypress tall. 

Within the gate, a garden set with care : 

Box-bordered plots, where peach and almond trees 

Rained blossoms on the maidens walking there, 
Or rustled softly in the summer breeze ; 



384 LATER POEMS. 

Here were sweet jessamine and jonquil rare, 

And arbors meet for pious talk at ease ; 
There must have been a dove-cote too, I know, 
Where white-winged birds like spirits come and go. 

Outside, the thrush and lark their music made 
Beyond the olive-grove at dewy morn ; 

By noon, cicalas, shrilling in the shade 
Of oak and ilex, woke the peasant's horn ; 

And, at the time when into darkness fade 

The vineyards, from their purple depths were borne 

The nightingale's responses to the prayer 

Of those sweet saints at vespers, meek and fair. 

Such is the place that, with the hand and eye 

Which are the joy of youth, I should have painted. 

Say not, who look thereon, that 't is awry — 
Like nothing real, by rhymesters' use attainted. 

Ah well ! then put the faulty picture by, 

And help me draw an abbess long since sainted. 

Think of your love, each one, and thereby guess 

The fashion of this lady's beauteousness. 

For in this convent Sister Beatrice, 

Of all her nuns the fairest and most young, 

Became, through grace and special holiness, 

Their sacred head, and moved, her brood among, 

Devote (fame et fervent e au service ; 

And thrice each day, their hymns and Aves sung, 

At Mary's altar would before them kneel, 

Keeping her vows with chaste and pious zeal. 

Now in the Holy Church there was a clerk, 
A godly-seeming man (as such there be 



SIS TEA' BEATRICE. 38$ 

Whose selfish hearts with craft and guile are dark), 
Young, gentle-phrased, of handsome mien and free. 

His passion chose this maiden for its mark, 
Begrudging heaven her white chastity, 

And with most sacrilegious art the while 

He sought her trustful nature to beguile. 

Oft as they met, with subtle hardihood 

He still more archly played the traitor's part, 

And strove to wake that murmur in her blood 
That times the pulses of a woman's heart ; 

And in her innocence she long withstood 
The secret tempter, but at last his art 

Changed all her tranquil thoughts to love's desire, 

Her vestal flame to earth's unhallowed fire. 

So the fair governess, o'ermastered, gave 

Herself to the destroyer, yet as one 
That slays, in pity, her sweet self, to save 

Another from some wretched deed undone ; 
But when she found her heart was folly's slave, 

She sought the altar which her steps must shun 
Thenceforth,, and yielded up her sacred trust, 
Ere tasting that false fruit which turns to dust. 

One eve the nuns beheld her entering 
Alone, as if for prayer beneath the rood, 

Their chapel-shrine, wherein the offering 

And masterpiece of some great painter stood, — 

The Virgin Mother, without plume or wing 
Ascending, poised in rapt beatitude, 

With hands crosswise, and intercession mild 

For all who crave her mercy undefiled. 
17 



386 LATER POEMS. 

There Beatrice — poor, guilty, desperate maid — 
Took from her belt the convent's blessed keys, 

And with them on the altar humbly laid 
Her missal, uttering such words as these 

(Her eyes cast down, and all her soul afraid): 
" O dearest mistress, hear me on my knees 

Confess to thee, in helplessness and shame, 

I am no longer fit to speak thy name. 

" Take back the keys wherewith in constancy 
Thy house and altar I have guarded well ! 

No more may Beatrice thy servant be, 

For earthly love her steps must needs compel. 

Forget me in this sore infirmity 

When my successor here her beads shall tell." 

This said, the girl withdrew her as she might, 

And with her lover fled that selfsame night ; 

Fled out, and into the relentless world 

Where Love abides, but Love that breedeth Sorrow, 
Where Purity still weeps with pinions furled, 

And Passion lies in wait her all to borrow. 
From such a height to such abasement whirled 

She fled that night, and many a day and morrow 
Abode indeed with him for whose embrace 
She bartered heaven and her hope of grace. 

O fickle will and pitiless desire, 

Twin wolves, that raven in a lustful heart 

And spare not innocence, nor yield, nor tire, 

But youth from joy and life from goodness part ; 

That drag an unstained victim to the mire, 
Then cast it soiled and hopeless on the mart ! 

Even so the clerk, once having dulled his longing, 

A worse thing did than thai first bitter wronging. 



SISTEfi BEATRICE. 387 

The base hind left her, ruined and alone, 
Unknowing by what craft to gain her bread 

In the hard world that gives to Want a stone. 
What marvel that she drifted whither led 

The current, that with none to heed her moan 
She reached the shore where life on husks is fed, 

Sank down, and, in the strangeness of her fall, 

Among her fellows was the worst of all ! 

Thus stranded, her fair body, consecrate 
To holiness, was smutched by spoilers rude, 

And entered all the seven fiends where late 
Abode a seeming angel, pure and good. 

What paths she followed in such woful state, 
By want, remorse, and the world's hate pursued, 

Were known alone to them whose spacious ken 

O'erlooks not even the poor Magdalen. 

After black years their dismal change had wrought 
Upon her beauty, and there was no stay 

By which to hold, some chance or yearning brought 
Her vagrant feet along the convent- way ; 

And half as in a dream there came a thought 
(For years she had not dared to think or pray' 

That moved her there to bow her in the dust 

And bear no more, but perish as she must. 

Crouched by the gate she waited, it is told, 
Brooding the past and all of life forlorn, 

Nor dared to lift her pallid face and old 
Against the passer's pity or his scorn ; 

And there perchance had ere another morn 
Died of her shame and sorrows manifold, 

But that a portress bade her pass within 

For solace of her wretchedness or sin. 



388 LATER POEMS. 

To whom the lost one, drinking now her fill 

Of woe that wakened memories made more drear, 

Said, " Was there not one Beatrice, until 

Some time now gone, that was an abbess here ? " 
" That was ?" the other said. " Is she not still 

The convent's head, and still our mistress dear ? 

Look ! even now she comes with open hand, 

The purest, saintliest lady in the land ! " 

And Beatrice, uplifting then her eyes, 
Saw her own self (in womanhood divine, 

It seemed) draw nigh, with holy look and wise, 
The aged portress leaving at a sign. 

Even while she marvelled at that strange disguise, 
There stood before her, radiant, benign, 

The blessed Mother of Mercy, all aflame 

With light, as if from Paradise she came ! 

From her most sacred lips, upon the ears 
Of Beatrice, these words of wonder fell : 
" Daughter, thy sins are pardoned ; dry thy tears, 
And in this house again my mercies tell, 

For, in thy stead, myself these woful years 

Have governed here and borne thine office well. 

Take back the keys : save thee and me alone 

No one thy fall and penance yet hath known ! " 

Even then, as faded out that loveliness, 
The abbess, looking down, herself descried 

Clean-robed and spotless, such as all confess 
To be a saint and fit for Heaven's bride. 

So ends the legend, and ye well may guess 
(Who, being untempted, walk in thoughtless pride) 

God of his grace can make the sinful pure, 

And while earth lasts shall mercy still endure. 



SEEKING THE MAY-FLOWER. 389 



SEEKING THE MAY-FLOWER. 

THE sweetest sound our whole year round- 
'T is the first robin of the spring ! 
The song of the full orchard choir 
Is not so fine a thing. 

Glad sights are common : Nature draws 
Her random pictures through the year, 
But oft her music bids us long 

Remember those most dear. 

To me, when in the sudden spring 

I hear the earliest robin's lay, 
With the first trill there comes again 
One picture of the May. 

The veil is parted wide, and lo, 

A moment, though my eyelids close, 
Once more I see that wooded hill 
Where the arbutus grows. 

I see the village dryad kneel, 

Trailing her slender fingers through 
The knotted tendrils, as she lifts 

Their pink, pale flowers to view. 

Once more I dare to stoop beside 

The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, 
And long to touch her careless hair, 
And think how dear her voice. 



390 LATER POEMS. 

My eager, wandering hands assist 

With fragrant blooms her lap to fill, 
And half by chance they meet her own, 
Half by our young hearts' will. 

Till, at the last, those blossoms won, — 
Like her, so pure, so sweet, so shy, — 
Upon the gray and lichened rocks 
Close at her feet I lie. 

Fresh blows the breeze through hemlock-trees, 

The fields are edged with green below ; 
And naught but youth and hope and love 
We know or care to know ! 

Hark ! from the moss-clung apple-bough, 

Beyond the tumbled wall, there broke 
That gurgling music of the May, — 
'T was the first robin spoke ! 

I heard it, ay, and heard it not, — 

For little then my glad heart wist 
What toil and time should come to pass, 
And what delight be missed ; 

Nor thought thereafter, year by year 
Hearing that fresh yet olden song, 
To yearn for unreturning joys 
That with its joy belong. 



HA WTHORNE. 391 



HAWTHORNE 



HARP of New England song, 
That even in slumber tremblest with the touch 
Of poets who like the four winds from thee waken 
All harmonies that to thy strings belong, — 
Say, wilt thou blame the younger hands too much 

Which from thy laurelled resting-place have taken 
Thee, crowned-one, in their hold ? There is a name 
Should quicken thee ! No carol Hawthorne sang, 
Yet his articulate spirit, like thine own, 

Made answer, quick as flame, 
To each breath of the shore from which he sprang, 
And prose like his was poesy's high tone. 

By measureless degrees 
Star follows star throughout the rounded night. 
Far off his path began, yet reached the near 
Sweet influences of the Pleiades, — 
A portion and a sharer of the light 

That shall so long outlast each burning sphere. 
Beneath the shade and whisper of the pines 

Two youths were fostered in the Norseland air ; 
One found an eagle's plume, and one the wand 
Wherewith a seer divines : 
Now but the Minstrel lingers of that pair, — 
The rod has fallen from the mage's hand. 

Gray on thy mountain height, 
More fair than wonderland beside thy streams, 
Thou with the splendors twain of youth and age, 



392 LATER POEMS. 

This was the son who read thy heart aright, 
Of whom thou wast beholden in his dreams, — 
The one New-Englander ! Upon whose page 
Thine offspring still are animate, and move 

Adown thy paths, a quaint and stately throng : 
Grave men of God who made the olden law, 
Fair maidens, meet for love, — 
All living types that to the coast belong 

Since Carver from the prow thy headland saw. 

What should the master be 
Who to the world New-England's self must render, 

Her best interpreter, her very own ? 
How spake the brooding Mother, strong and tender, 
Back-looking through her youth betwixt the moan 

Of forests and the murmur of the sea ? 
" Thou too, " she said, " must first be set aside 

To keep my ancient vigil for a space, — 
Taught by repression, by the combating 

With thine own pride of pride, 
An unknown watcher in a lonely place 

With none on whom thine utterance to fling. " 

But first of all she fed 
Her heart's own favorite upon the store 

Of precious things she treasures in her woods, 
Of charm and story in her valleys spread. 
For him her whispering winds and brooks that pour 

Made ceaseless music in the solitudes; 
The manifold bright surges of her deep 

Gave him their light. Within her voice's call 
She lured him on, by roadways overhung 

With elms, that he might keep 
Remembrance of her legends as they fall 
Her shaded walks and gabled roofs among. 



HA WTHORNE. 393 

Within the mists she drew, 
Anon, his silent footsteps, as her own 
Were led of old, until he came to be 
An eremite, whose life the desert knew, 
And gained companionship in dreams alone. 

The world, it seemed, had naught for such as he, — 
For one who in his heart's deep wilderness 

Shrunk darkling, and, whatever wind might blow, 
Found no quick use for potent hands and fain, 
No chance that might express 
To human-kind the thoughts which moved him so. 
— O, deem not those long years were quite in vain! 

For his was the brave soul 
Which, touched with lire, dwells not on whatsoever 

Its outer senses hold in their intent, 
But, sleepless even in sleep, must gather toll 
Of dreams which pass like barks upon the river 

And make each vision Beauty's instrument ; 
That from its own love Love's delight can tell, 

And from its own grief guess the shrouded Sorrow 5 
From its own joyousness of Joy can sing ; 
That can predict so well 
From its own dawn the lustre of to-morrow, 
The whole flight from the flutter of the wing. 

And his the gift which sees 
A revelation and a tropic sign 

In the lone passion-flower, and can discover 
The likeness of the far Antipodes, 
Though but a leaf is stranded from the brine ; 

His the fine spirit which is so true a lover 
Of sovran Art, that all the becks of life 

Allure it not until the work be wrought. 



394 LATER POEMS. 

Nay, though the shout and smoke of combat rose, 
He, through the changeful strife, 
Eternal loveliness more closely sought, 
And Beauty's changeless law and sure repose. 

Was it not well that one — 
One, if no more — should meditate aloof, 

Though not for naught the time's heroic quarrel, 
From what men rush to do and what is done. 
He little knew to join the web and woof 

Whereof slow Progress weaves her rich apparel, 
But toward the Past half longing turned his head. 

His deft hand dallied with its common share 
Of human toil, nor sought new loads to lift, 
But held itself, instead, 
All consecrate to uses that make fair, 
By right divine of his mysterious gift. 

How should the world discern 
The artist's self, save through the fine creation 

Of his rare moment ? How, but from his song, 
The unfettered spirit of the minstrel learn ? 
Yet on this one the stars had set the station 

Which to the chief romancer should belong: 
Child of the Beautiful ! whose regnant brow 

She made her canopy, and from his eyes 
Looked outward with a steadfast purple gleam. 
Who saw him marvelled how 
The soul of that impassioned ray could lie 
So calm beyond, — unspoken all its dream. 

What sibyl to him bore 
The secret oracles that move and haunt ? 

At night's dread noon he scanned the enchanted glass, 



HA WTHORNE. 395 

Ay, and himself the warlock's mantle wore, 
Nor to the thronging phantoms said Avaunt, 

But waved his rod and bade them rise and pass ; 
Till thus he drew the lineaments of men 

Who fought the old colonial battles three, 
Who with the lustihood of Nature warred 
And made her docile, — then 
Wrestled with Terror and with Tyranny, 
Twin wardens of the scaffold and the sword. 

He drew his native land, 
The few and rude plantations of her Past, 

Fringed by the beaches of her sounding shore ; 
Her children, as he drew them, there they stand ; 
There, too, her Present, with an outline cast 

Still from the shape those other centuries wore. 
Betimes the orchards and the clover-fields 

Change into woods o'ershadowing a host 
That winds along the Massachusetts Path ; 
The sword of Standish shields 
The Plymouth band, and where the lewd ones boast 
Stern Endicott pours out his godly wrath. 

Within the Province House 
The ancient governors hold their broidered state, — 

Still gleam the lights, the shadows come and go ; 
Here once again the powdered guests carouse, 
The masquerade lasts on, the night is late. 

Thrice waves a mist-invoking wand, and lo, 
What troubled sights ! What summit bald and steep 

Where stands a ladder 'gainst the accursed tree ? 
What dark processions thither slowly climb ? 
Anon, what lost ones keep 
Their midnight tryst with forms that evil be, 
Around the witch-fire in the forest grim ! 



396 LATER POEMS. 

Clearly the master's plan 
Revealed his people, even as they were, 

The prayerful elder and the winsome maid, 
The errant roisterer, the Puritan, 
Dark Pyncheon, mournful Hester, — all are there. 

But none save he in our own time so laid 
His summons on man's spirit; none but he, 

Whether the light thereof were clear or clouded, 
Thus on his canvas fixed the human soul, 
The thoughts of mystery, 
In deep hearts by this mortal guise enshrouded, 
Wild hearts that like the church-bells ring and toll. 

Two natures in him strove 
Like day with night, his sunshine and his gloom. 
To him the stern forefathers' creed descended, 
The weight of some inexorable Jove 
Prejudging from the cradle to the tomb ; 

But therewithal the lightsome laughter blended 
Of that Arcadian sweetness undismayed 

Which finds in Love its law, and graces still 
The rood, the penitential symbol worn, — 

Which sees, beyond the shade, 
The Naiad nymph of every rippling rill, 

And hears quick Fancy wind her wilful horn. 

What if he brooded long 
On Time and Fate, — the ominous progression 

Of years that with Man's retributions frown, — 
The destinies which round his footsteps throng, — 
Justice, that heeds not Mercy's intercession, — 

Crime, on its own head calling vengeance down, — 
Deaf Chance and blind, that, like the mountain-slide 

Puts out Youth's heart of fire and all is dark ! 



HA WTHORNE. 397 

What though the blemish which, in aught of earth, 
The maker's hand defied, 
Was plain to him, — the one evasive mark 

Wherewith Death stamps us for his own at birth ! 

Ah, none the less we know 
He felt the imperceptible fine thrill 

With which the waves of being palpitate, 
Whether in ecstasy of joy or woe, 
And saw the strong divinity of Will 

Bringing to halt the stolid tramp of Fate ; 
Nor from his work was ever absent quite 

The presence which, o'ercast it as we may, 
Things far beyond our reason can suggest : 
There was a drifting light 
In Donatello's cell, — a fitful ray 
Of sunshine came to hapless Clifford's breast. 

Into such blossom brake 
Our northern hedge, that neither mortax sadness 

Nor the drear thought of lives that strive and fail, 
Nor any hues its sombre leaves might take 
From clouded skies, could overcome its gladness 

Or in the blessing of its shade prevail. 
Fresh sprays it yielded them of Merry Mount 

For wedding wreaths ; blithe Phcebe with the sweet 
Pure flowers her promise to her lover gave : 
Beside it, from a fount 
Where Pearl and Pansie plashed their innocent feet, 
A brook ran on and kissed Zenobia's grave. 

Silent and dark the spell 
Laid on New England by the frozen North ; 

Long, long the months, — and yet the Winter ends, 



398 LATER POEMS. 

The snow-wraiths vanish, and rejoicing well 
The dandelions from the grass leap forth, 

And Spring through budding birch and willow sends 
Her wind of Paradise. And there are left 

Poets to sing of all, and welcome still 
The robin's voice, the humble-bee's wise drone $ 
Nor are we yet bereft 
Of one whose sagas ever at his will 

Can answer back the ocean, tone for tone. 

But he whose quickened eye 
Saw through New England's life her inmost spirit, — 

Her heart, and all the stays on which it leant, — 
Returns not, since he laid the pencil by 
Whose mystic touch none other shall inherit ! 

What though its work unfinished lies ? Half-bent 
The rainbow's arch fades out in upper air ; 

The shining cataract half-way down the height 
Breaks into mist ; the haunting strain, that fell 
On listeners unaware, 
Ends incomplete, but through the starry night 
The ear still waits for what it did not tell. 



ALL IN A LIFETIME. 

THOU shalt have sun and shower from heaven 
above, 
Thou shalt have flower and thorn from earth below, 
Thine shall be foe to hate and friend to love, 
Pleasures that others gain, the ills they know, — 
And all in a lifetime. 



399 



ALL LN A LLFETIME. 

Hast thou a golden day, a starlit night, 
Mirth, and music, and love without alloy ? 

Leave no drop undrunken of thy delight : 
Sorrow and shadow follow on thy joy. 
'T is all in a lifetime. 

What if the battle end and thou hast lost ? 

Others have lost the battles thou hast won ; 
Haste thee, bind thy wounds, nor count the cost % 

Over the field will rise to-morrow's sun. 
'T is all in a lifetime. 

Laugh at the braggart sneer, the open scorn, — 
'Ware of the secret stab, the slanderous lie : 

For seventy years of turmoil thou wast born, 
Bitter and sweet are thine till these go by. 
'T is all in a lifetime. 



Reckon thy voyage well, and spread the sail, — 
Wind and calm and current shall warp thy way ; 

Compass shall set thee false, and chart shall fail ; 
Ever the waves will use thee for their play. 
'T is all in a lifetime. 

Thousands of years agone were chance and change. 

Thousands of ages hence the same shall be ; 
Naught of thy joy and grief is new or strange : 

Gather apace the good that falls to thee ! 
'T is all in a lifetime ! 



400 LATER POEMS. 



THE SKULL IN THE GOLD DRIFT. 

WHAT ho ! dumb jester, cease to grin and mask it ! 
Grim courier, thou hast stayed upon the road ! 
Yield up the secret of this battered casket, 

This shard, where once a living soul abode ! 
What dost thou here ? how long hast lain imbedded 

In crystal sands, the drift of Time's despair ; 
Thine earth to earth with aureate dower wedded, 
Thy parts all changed to something rich and rare ? 

Voiceless thou art, and yet a revelation 

Of that most ancient world beneath the new ; 
But who shall guess thy race, thy name and station, 

^Eons and aeons ere these bowlders grew ? 
What alchemy can make thy visage liker 

Its untransmuted shape, thy flesh restore, 
Resolve to blood again thy golden ichor, 

Possess thee of the life thou hadst before ? 

Before ! And when ? What ages immemorial 

Have passed since daylight fell where thou dost sleep ! 
What molten strata, ay, and flotsam boreal, 

Have shielded well thy rest, and pressed thee deep ! 
Thou little wist what mighty floods descended, 

How sprawled the armored monsters in their camp, 
Nor heardest, when the watery cycle ended, 

The mastodon and mammoth o'er thee tramp. 

How seemed this globe of ours when thou didst scan it ? 
When, in its lusty youth, there sprang to birth 



THE SKULL IN THE GOLD DRIFT. 4.OI 

All that has life, unnurtured, and the planet 
Was paradise, the true Saturnian Earth ! 

Far toward the poles was stretched the happy garden ; 
Earth kept it fair by warmth from her own breast ; 

Toil had not come to dwarf her sons and harden ; 
No crime (there was no want) perturbed their rest. 

How lived thy kind ? Was there no duty blended 

With all their toilless joy, — no grand desire ? 
Perchance as shepherds on the meads they tended 

Their flocks, and knew the pastoral pipe and lyre ; 
Until a hundred happy generations, 

Whose birth and death had neither pain nor fear, 
At last, in riper ages, brought the nations 

To modes which we renew who greet thee here. 

How stately then they built their royal cities, 

With what strong engines speeded to and fro ; 
What music thrilled their souls ; what poets' ditties 

Made youth with love, and age withTionor glow ! 
And had they then their Homer, Kepler, Bacon ? 

Did some Columbus find an unknown clime ? 
Was there an archetypal Christ, forsaken 

Of those he died to save, in that far time ? 

When came the end ? What terrible convulsion 

Heaved from within the Earth's distended shell ? 
What pent-up demons, by their fierce repulsion, 

Made of that sunlit crust a sunless hell ? 
How, when the hour was ripe, those deathful forces 

In one resistless doom o'erwhelmed ye all ; 
Ingulfed the seas and dried the river courses, 

And made the forests and the cities fall ! 



402 LATER POEMS. 

Ah me ! with what a sudden, dreadful thunder 

The whole round world was split from pole to pole ! 
Down sank the continents, the waters under, 

And fire burst forth where now the oceans roll ; 
Of those wan flames the dismal exhalations 

Stifled, anon, each living creature's breath, 
Dear life was driven from its utmost stations, 

And seethed beneath the smoking pall of death ! 

Then brawling leapt full height yon helme'd giants ; 

The proud Sierras on the skies laid hold; 
Their watch and ward have bidden time defiance, 

Guarding thy grave amid the sands of gold. 
Thy kind was then no more ! What untold ages, 

Ere Man, renewed from earth by slow degrees, 
Woke to the strife he now with Nature wages 

O'er ruder lands and more tempestuous seas. 

How poor the gold, that made thy burial splendid, 

Beside one single annal of thy race, 
One implement, one fragment that attended 

Thy life — which now has left not even a trace \ 
From the soul's realm awhile recall thy spirit, 

See how the land is spread, how flows the main, 
The tribes that in thy stead the globe inherit, 

Their grand unrest, their eager joy and pain. 

Beneath our feet a thousand ages moulder, 

Grayer our skies than thine, the winds more chill ; 
Thine the young world, and ours the hoarier, colder, 

But Man's unfaltering heart is dauntless still. 
And yet — and yet like thine his solemn story ; 

Grope where he will, transition lies before ; 
We, too, must pass ! our wisdom, works, and glory 

In turn shall yield, and change, and be no more. 



SONG FROM A DRAMA. 403 



SONG FROM A DRAMA. 

I KNOW not if moonlight or starlight 
Be soft on the land and the sea, — 
I catch but the near light, the far light, 

Of eyes that are burning for me ; 
The scent of the night, of the roses. 

May burden the air for thee, Sweet, — 
'T is only the breath of thy sighing 
I know, as I lie at thy feet. 

The winds may be sobbing or singing, 

Their touch may be fervent or cold, 
The night-bells may toll or be ringing, — 

I care not, while thee I enfold ! 
The feast may go on, and the music 

Be scattered in ecstasy round, — 
Thy whisper, " I love thee ! I love thee ! " 

Hath flooded my soul with its sound. 

I think not of time that is flying, 

How short is the hour I have won, 
How near is this living to dying, 

How the shadow still follows the sun ; 
There is naught upon earth, no desire, 

Worth a thought, though 't were had by a sign J 
I love thee ! I love thee ! bring nigher 

Thy spirit, thy kisses, to mine 



404 LATER POEMS. 

THE SUN-DIAL. 

" Horas non numero nisi serenas." 

ONLY the sunny hours 
Are numbered here, — 
No winter-time that lowers, 

No twilight drear. 
But from a golden sky 
When sunbeams fall, 
Though the bright moments fly, —■ 
They 're counted all. 

My heart its transient woe 

Remembers not ! 
The ills of long ago 

Are half forgot ; 
But Childhood's round of bliss, 

Youth's tender thrill, 
Hope's whisper, Love's first kiss, -» 

They haunt me still ! 

Sorrows are everywhere, 

Joys — all too few ! 
Have we not had our share 

Of pleasure too ? 
No Past the glad heart cowers, 

No memories dark; 
Only the sunny hours 

The dial mark. 



MADRIGAL. 405 



MADRIGAL. 

DORUS TO LYCORIS, WHO REPROVED HIM FOR INCONSTANCY. 

WHY should I constant be ? 
The bird in yonder tree, 
This leafy summer, 
Hath not his last year's mate, 
Nor dreads to venture fate 
With a new-comer. 

Why should I fear to sip 
The sweets of each red lip ? 

In every bower 
The roving bee may taste 
(Lest aught should run to waste) 

Each fresh-blown flower. 

The trickling rain doth fall 
Upon us one and all ; 

The south-wind kisses 
The saucy milkmaid's cheek, 
The nun's, demure and meek, 

Nor any misses. 

Then ask no more of me 
That I should constant be, 

Nor eke desire it ; 
Take not such idle pains 
To hold our love in chains, 

Nor coax, nor hire it. 



406 LATER POEMS. 

Be all things in thyself, — 
A sprite, a tricksy elf, 

Forever changing, 
So that thy latest mood 
, May ever bring new food 

To Fancy ranging. 

Forget what thou wast first, 
And as I loved thee erst 

In soul and feature, 
I '11 love thee out of mind 
When each new morn shall find 

Thee a new creature. 



WITH A SPRIG OF HEATHER. 

TO THE LADV WHO SENT ME A JAR OF HYMETTIAN HOUEY. 

LADY, had the lot been mine 
That befell the sage divine, 
Near Hymettus to be bred, 
And in sleep on honey fed, 
I would send to you, be sure, 
Rhythmic verses — tuneful, pure, 
Such as flowed when Greece was young. 
And the Attic songs were sung ; 
I would take your little jar, 
Filled with sweetness from afar, — 
Brown as amber, bright as gold, 
Breathing odors manifold, — 
And would thank you, sip by sip, 
With the classic honeyed lip. 
But the gods did not befriend 



THE LORHS-DAY GALE. 407 

Me in childhood's sleep, nor send, 
One by one, their laden bees, 
That I now might sing at ease 
With the winsome voice and word 
In this age too seldom heard. 
(Had they the Atlantic crost, 
Half their treasure had been lost !) 
Changed the time, and gone the art 
Of the glad Athenian heart. 
Take you, then, in turn, I pray, 
For your gift, this little spray, — ■ 
Heather from a breezy hill 
That of Burns doth whisper still. 
On the soil where this was bred 
The rapt ploughman laid his head, 
Sang, and looking to the sky 
Saw the Muses hovering nigh. 
From the air and from the gorse 
Scotland's sweetness took its source ; — 
Precious still your jar, you see, 
Though its honey stays with me. 



THE LORD'S-DAY GALE. 

BAY ST. LAWRENCE, AUGUST, 1873. 

IN Gloucester port lie fishing craft, — 
More stanch and trim were never seen: 
They are sharp before and sheer abaft, 

And true their lines the masts between. 
Along the wharves of Gloucester Town 
Their fares are lightly handed down, 
And the laden flakes to landward lean. 



408 LATER POEMS. 

Well know the men each cruising-ground, 
And where the cod and mackerel be ; 

Old Eastern Point the schooners round 
And leave Cape Ann on the larboard lee : 

Sound are the planks, the hearts are bold, 

That brave December's surges cold 
On Georges' shoals in the outer sea. 

And some must sail to the banks far north 
And set their trawls for the hungry cod, — 

In the ghostly fog grope back and forth 
By shrouded paths no foot hath trod ; 

Upon the crews the ice-winds blow, 

The bitter sleet, the frozen snow, — 
Their lives are in the hand of God ! 

New England ! New England ! 

Needs sail they must, so brave and poor, 
Or June be warm or Winter storm, 

Lest a wolf gnaw through the cottage-door ! 
Three weeks at home, three long months gone, 
While the patient goodwives sleep alone, 

And wake to hear the breakers roar. 

The Grand Bank gathers in its dead, — 
The deep sea-sand is their winding-sheet ; 

Who does not Georges' billows dread 
That dash together the drifting fleet ? 

Who does not long to hear, in May, 

The pleasant wash of Saint Lawrence Bay, 
The fairest ground where fishermen meet ? 

There the west wave holds the red sunlight 
Till the bells at home are rung for nine : 



THE LORD'S-DAY GALE. 409 

Short, short the watch, and calm the night ; 

The fiery northern streamers shine ; 
The eastern sky anon is gold, 
And winds from piny forests old 

Scatter the white mists off the brine. 

The Province craft with ours at morn 
Are mingled when the vapors shift ; 

All day, by breeze and current borne, 
Across the bay the sailors drift ; 

With toll and seine its wealth they win, — 

The dappled, silvery spoil come in 
Fast as their hands can haul and lift. 

New England .! New England ! 

Thou lovest well thine ocean main ! 
It spreadeth its locks among thy rocks, 

And long against thy heart hath lain ; 
Thy ships upon its bosom ride 
And feel the heaving of its tide; 

To thee its secret speech is plain. 

Cape Breton and Edward Isle between, 
In strait and gulf the schooners lay; 

The sea was all at peace, I ween, 
The night before that August day ; 

Was never a Gloucester skipper there, 

But thought erelong, with a right good fare, 
To sail for home from Saint Lawrence Bay. 

New England ! New England ! 

Thy giant's love was turned to hate ! 
The winds control his fickle soul, 

And in his wrath he hath no mate. 
18 



4IO LATER POEMS. 

Thy shores his angry scourges tear, 
And for thy children in his care 
The sudden tempests lie in wait. 

The East Wind gathered all unknown,— 
A thick sea-cloud his course before ; 

He left by night the frozen zone 
And smote the cliffs of Labrador ; 

He lashed the coasts on either hand, 

And betwixt the Cape and Newfoundland 
Into the Bay his armies pour. 

He caught our helpless, cruisers there 
As a gray wolf harries the huddling fold j 

A sleet — a darkness — filled the air, 
A shuddering wave before it rolled : 

That Lord's-day morn it was a breeze, — 

At noon, a blast that shook the seas, — 
At night, — a wind of Death took hold ! 

It leapt across the Breton bar, 

A death-wind from the stormy East I 

It scarred the land, and whirled afar 

The sheltering thatch of man and beast ; 

It mingled rick and roof and tree, 

And like a besom swept the sea, 
And churned the waters into yeast. 

From Saint Paul's light to Edward Isle 
A thousand craft it smote amain ; 

And some against it strove the while, 
And more to make a port were fain : 

The mackerel-gulls flew screaming past, 



THE LORD'S-DAY GALE. 411 

And the stick that bent to the noonday blast 
Was split by the sundown hurricane. 

Woe, woe to those whom the islands pen ! 

In vain they shun the double capes : 
Cruel are the reefs of Magdalen ; 

The Wolf's white fang what prey escapes ? 
The Grin'stone grinds the bones of some, 
And Coffin Isle is craped with foam ; — 

On Deadman's shore are fearful shapes ! 

O, what can live on the open sea, 
Or moored in port the gale outride ? 

The very craft that at anchor be 
Are dragged along by the swollen tide I 

The great storm-wave came rolling west, 

And tossed the vessels on its crest : 
The ancient bounds its might defied ! 

The ebb to check it had no power ; 

The surf ran up an untold height ; 
It rose, nor yielded, hour by hour, 

A night and day, a day and night ; 
Far up the seething shores it cast 
The wrecks of hull and spar and mast, 

The strangled crews, — a woful sight ! 

There were twenty and more of Breton sail 
Fast anchored on one mooring-ground ; 

Each lay within his neighbor's hail 
When the thick of the tempest closed them 
round : 

All sank at once in the gaping sea, — 

Somewhere on the shoals their corses be, 
The foundered hulks, and the seamen drowned. 



412 LATER POEMS. 

On reef and bar our schooners drove 

Before the wind, before the swell ; 
By the steep sand-cliffs their ribs were stove, — 

Long, long, their crews the tale shall tell ! 
Of the Gloucester fleet are wrecks threescore j 
Of the Province sail two hundred more 

Were stranded in that tempest fell. 

The bedtime bells in Gloucester Town 
That Sabbath night rang soft and clear ; 

The sailors' children laid them down, — 

Dear Lord ! their sweet prayers couldst thou hear ? 

'T is said that gently blew the winds ; 

The goodwives, through the seaward blinds, 
Looked down the bay and had no fear. 

New England ! New England ! 

Thy ports their dauntless seamen mourn ; 
The twin capes yearn for their return 

Who never shall be thither borne ; 
Their orphans whisper as they meet ; 
The homes are dark in many a street, 

And women move in weeds forlorn. 

And wilt thou quail, and dost thou fear ? 

Ah, no ! though widows' cheeks are pale, 
The lads shall say : " Another year, 

And we shall be of age to sail ! " 
And the mothers' hearts shall fill with pride, 
Though tears drop fast for them who died 

When the fleet was wrecked in the Lord's-Day gale. 



L'ENVOI 




AD VATEM. 



WHITTIER i the Land that loves thee, she whose 
child . 
Thou art, — and whose uplifted hands thou long 
Hast stayed with song availing like a prayer, — 
She feels a sudden pang, who gave thee birth 
And gave to thee the lineaments supreme 
Of her own freedom, that she could not make 
Thy tissues all immortal, or, if to change, 
To bloom through years coeval with her own ; 
So that no touch of age nor frost of time 
Should wither thee, nor furrow thy dear face, 
Nor fleck thy hair with silver. Ay, she feels 
A double pang that thee, with each new year, 
Glad Youth may not revisit, like the Spring 
That routs her northern Winter and anew 
Melts off the hoar snow from her puissant hills. 
She could not make thee deathless ; no, but thoo, 
Thou sangest her always in abiding verse 
And hast thy fame immortal — as we say 
Immortal in this Earth that yet must die, 
And in this land now fairest and most young 
Of all fair lands that yet must perish with it. 
Thy words shall last : albeit thou growest old, 
Men say ; but never old the poet's soul 
Becomes ; only its covering takes on. 



41 6 AD VATEM. 

A reverend splendour, as in the misty fall 

Thine own auroral forests, ere at last 

Passes the spirit of the wooded dell. 

And stay thou with us long ; vouchsafe us long 

This brave autumnal presence, ere the hues 

Slow fading, — ere the quaver of thy voice, 

The twilight of thine eye, move men to ask 

Where hides the chariot, — in what sunset vale, 

Beyond thy chosen river, champ the steeds 

That wait to bear thee skyward ? Since we too 

Would feign thee, in our tenderness, to be 

Inviolate, excepted from thy kind, 

And that our bard and prophet best-beloved 

Shall vanish like that other : him that stood 

Undaunted in the pleasure-house of kings, 

And unto kings and crowned harlots spake 

God's truth and judgment. At his sacred feet 

Far followed all the lesser men of old 

Whose lips were touched with fire, and caught from him 

The gift of prophecy ; and thus from thee, 

Whittier, the younger singers, — whom thou seest 

Each emulous to be thy staff this day, — 

What learned they ? righteous anger, burning scorn 

Of the oppressor, love to humankind, * 

Sweet fealty to country and to home, 

Peace, stainless purity, high thoughts of heaven, 

And the clear, natural music of thy song. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



A cloister tale, —a strange and ancient thing, 382. 

A wind and a voice from the North, 310. 

Afterward, soon as the chaste Persephone hither and thither, 351. 

All night we hear the rattling flaw, 279. 

Back from the trebly crimsoned field, 289. 

Bayard, awaken not this music strong, 265. 

Bring no more flowers and books and precious things, 71. 

But, now, far other days, 314. 

Came the morning of that day, 287. 

Clothed in sable, crowned with gold, 257. 

Cloud and flame on the dark frontier, 113. 

Come, let us burst the cerements and the shroud, 263. 

Could we but know, 278. 

Grouch no more by the wild walls, 28. 

Dear Friend and Teacher, — not by word alone, 44. 
Do you remember our charming times, 179. 

Earth, let thy softest mantle rest, 321. 

Far in the western ocean's breast, 75. 

Flight of a meteor through the sky, 115. 

" Forgive them, for they know not what they do," 293. 

Gone at last, 300. 

Gone the Arcadian age, 313. 

Great Ares, whose tempestuous godhood found, 145. 

Had I, my love declared, the tireless wing, 162. 

Hark ! the jingle, 56. 

Harp of New England song, 391. 

Hendrick Van Ghelt of Monmouth shore, 91. 

Here, in Learning's shaded haunt, 315. 

How many years have made their flights, 27a 

How slow, how sure, how swift, 316. 

I have a little kinsman, 380. 
I know not if moonlight or starlight, 403, 
I loved : and in the morning sky, 79. 
I walk in the. morning twilight, 21. 
If I had been a rich man's girl, 253. 



418 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

In fallow college days, Tom Harland, 58. 
In Gloucester port lie fishing craft, 407. 
In January, when down the dairy, 247. 
Is it naught ? is it naught, 297. 
Is there naught else ? you say, 317. 

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, 64. 

Just at sunrise, when the land-breeze cooled the fevered air once more, 30. 

Just where the Treasury's marble front, 250. 

Ladies, in silks and laces, 101. 

Lady, had the lot been mine, 406. 

Last August, of a three weeks' country tour, 48. 

Lastly the moon went down ; like burnished steel, 139. 

Laura, my darling, the roses have blushed, 239. 

Leaning her face on her hand, 130. 

Like an affluent, royal town, the summer camps, 118. 

Long since, there was a Princess of the blood, 189. 

Love, from that summer morn, 107. 

Nature a devious by-way finds : solve me her secret whim, 94. 
No clouds are in the morning sky, 275. 
Not thus, Ulysses, with a tender word, 17. 
Not yet ! No, no, — you would not quote, 327. 

Olark! sweet lark! 21. 

O long are years of waiting, when lovers' hearts are bound, 376k 

O Love ! Love ! Love ! what times were those, 10. 

O, trained beneath the Northern Star, 320. 

O wretched woman indeed, and O most wise, 355. 

Of all the beautiful demons who fasten on human hearts, 158. 

Olympia ? Yes, strange tidings from the city, 334. 

On river and height and salty moors the haze of autumn fell, 108. 

Once more, dear mother Earth, we stand, 329. 

Once more on the fallow hillside, as of old, I lie at rest, 154- 

One by one they died, 244. 

One can never quite forget, 241. 

One such there was, that brother elder-born, 318 

Only the sunny hours, 404. 

Our good steeds snuff the evening air, 12a 

Out, out, Old Age ! aroint ye ! 369. 

Poet, wherefore hither bring, 187. 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, 238. 

Queen Katherine of Arragon, 165. 
Queen of the shadowy clime, 80. 

Rifle the sweets our meadows bear, 105. 

Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pall, 152. 

She seemed an angel to our infant eyes, 72. 

Silent they were, not sad ; for the sod that covers the grave 

Sir Ulric a Southern dame has wed, 168. 

Sleeping, I dreamed that thou wast mine, 240. 

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, 324. 

Sometimes within my hand, 259. 

Sons of New England, in the fray, 291. 






INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 419 

Spake each mother to her son, in. 

Splendors of moraing the billow-crests brighten, 237. 

Sprung was the bow at last, 128. 

" Steady! forward the squadron! " cries, 132. 

The conference-meeting through at last, 242. 

The fair Earth smiled and turned herself and woke, 272. 

The strawberry-vines lie in the sun, 103. 

The sunlight fills the trembling air, 276.- 

The sunset darkens in the west, 261. 

The sweetest sound our whole year round, 389. 

The tryst is kept. How fares it with each one, 338. 

There 's an hour, at the fall of night, when the blissful souls, 137. 

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word, 371. 

Thou shalt have sun and shower from heaven above, 398. 

Through Arkadi's shattered pile, 299. 

Thus, — when ended the morning tramp, 123. 

'T is fifteen hundred years, you say, 373. 

To many a one there comes a day, 40. 

'Twas the season of feasts, when the blithe birds had met, 336. 

Twelve hundred miles and more, 255. 

Two thousand feet in air it stands, 266. 

Vainly, O burning Poets, 40. 
Voice of the western wind, 29. 

Waking, I have been nigh to death, 279. 

War! war! war! 110. 

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North! 303. 

We stood around the dreamless form, 281. 

Wear no armor, timid heart, 135. 

Well, Helen, quite two years have flown, 160. 

Well may your hearts be valiant, — ye who stand, 319. 

What ho ! dumb jester, cease to grin and mask it ! 400. 

" What shall my song rehearse ? " I said, 311. 

What ! shall that sudden blade, 325. 

What would you do, my dear one said, 283. 

When April rains and the great spring-tide, 121. 

When buttercups are blossoming, 3. 

When the rude world's relentless war has pressed, 163. 

Where nowadays the Battery lies, 170. 

Which is the Wind that brings the cold, 275. 

Whither away, Robin, 372. 

Whittier ! the Land that loves thee, she whose child, 415. 

Why should I constant be? 405. 

Within our summer hermitage, 365. 

Years ago, when a summer sun, 23. 
Yestermorn the air was dry, 25. 

Zounds! how the price went flashing through, 293. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal divisions of 
the book ; those in lower case are of single poems or the subdivisions of 
long poems.] 



Ad Vatem, 415. 

Admiral, The Old, 300. 

Alectryon, 145. 

Alice of_ Monmouth, 91. 

All in a Lifetime, 398. 

Amavi, 79. 

Anonyma, 253. 

Apollo, 40. 

Arnold, George, 281. 

Assault by Night, The, 279. 

At Twilight, 261. 

Autumn Song, 275. 

Ballad of Lager Bier, The, 58. 
Betrothed Anew, 276. 
Blameless Prince, The, 187. 
Bohemia : A Pilgrimage, 3. 

Comedian's Last Night, The, 327. 
Country Sleighing, 247. 
Crabbed Age and Youth, 369. 
Crete, 299. 
Cuba, 297. 
Custer, 325. 



279. 



" Darkness and the Shadow. 

Dartmouth Ode, 310. 

Death of Agamemnon, The (from 

Homer), 351. 
Death of Agamemnon, The (from 

Aischylps), 255. 
Diamond Wedding, The, 10. 
Discoverer, The, 380. 
Doorstep, The, 242. 
Duke Is Exequy, The, 257. 

Early Poems, 3. 
Edged Tools, 160. 
Elfin Song, 75. 
Estelle, 158. 



Feast of Harvest, The, 272. 
Flight of the Birds, The, 372, 
Flood-Tide, 30. 
Freshet, The, 48. 
Fuit Ilium, 244. 

Gettysburg, 303. 
Greeley, Horace, 321, 

Hawthorne, 391. 

Heart of New England, The, 376. 

Heather, With a Sprig of, 406. 

Heliotrope, 21. 

Hillside Door, The, 259. 

Holyoke Valley, 270. 

Hope Deferred, 71. 

How Old Brown took Harper's 

Ferry, 64. 
Hypatia, 373. 

Israel Freyer's Bid for Gold, 293. 

Jean Prouvaire's Song at the Barri- 
cade, 179. 

Kearney at Seven Pines, 324. 

Later Poems, 365. 
Laura, my Darling, 239. 
Le Jour du Rossignol, 336- 
L'Envoi, 415. 
Lincoln, Abraham, 293. 
Lord's-Day Gale, The, 407. 

Madrigal, 405. 

Meridian, 338. 

Miscellaneous Poems, 145, 23,. 

Montagu, 165. 

Monument of Greeley, The, 329. 

Mountain, The, 266. 



422 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



News from Olympia, 334. 

Occasional Poems, 287. 
Ode to Pastoral Romance, 80. 
Old Love and the New, The, 154. 
Ordeal by Fire, The, 40. 

Pan in Wall Street, 250, 

Penelope, 17. 

Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call, 

170. 
Poems of Nature, 263. 
Poems written in Youth, 75. 
Protest of Faith, The, 44. 

Refuge in Nature, 163. 
Rosemary, 23. 

Sad Bridal, The, 283. 

Seeking the Mayflower, 389. 

Shadow-Land, 278. 

Singer, The, 21. 

Sister Beatrice, 382. 

Skull in the Gold Drift, The, 400. 

Sleigh-Ride, The, 56. 

Song from a Drama, 403. 

Songs and Studies, 237 

Songster, The, 365. 



Sonnets, 71. 
Spoken at Sea, 255. 
Stanzas for Music, 371 
Summer Rain, 25. 
Sumter, 287. 
Sun-Dial, The, 404. 
Surf, 237. 
Swallow, The, 162. 

Taylor, Bayard, To, 265. 
Test, The, 152. 
Too Late, 28. 
Toujours Amour, 238. 
Translations, 179, 351. 
Treason's Last Device, 291, 
Tryst, The, 240. 

Undiscovered Country, The, 2?i 

Violet Eyes, 241. 

Voice of the Western Wind, 29. 

Wanted — A Man, 289. 
What the Winds bring, 275. 
Wild Winds whistle, 168. 
With a Sprig of Heather, 406. 
Woods and Waters, 263. 



Oct 2 &QI 



SEP 7 1901 






LIBRARY OF 



CONGRESS 



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0015 973 530 8 



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